Page 61 of Wrecked on the Mountain
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes and groan.
This wasn't supposed to happen.This was supposed to be my quiet season. My reset. Three months of solitude, reflection, and maybe finding my joy in being a doctor again.
Not…whatever this is.
Falling for the emotionally constipated mountain man who can make me come with nothing more than a well-timed look and a command to bend over his desk was not part of the plan.
I groan at myself, but the sound of a soft knock on my door makes me jump, spilling lukewarm tea all over my lap.
"Shit," I mutter, scrambling for the dish towel I left on the coffee table.
Another knock, this one more insistent.
I glance at the clock: 10:47 PM. Who the hell is knocking on my door at almost eleven at night in Stone River Mountain?
I peek through the window and my heart does something acrobatic and completely inappropriate when I see Jamie's truck in my driveway, headlights still on, engine running.
Shit.What is he doing here? Am I in trouble because I didn't tell him I left work? Chase promised he would cover for me!
I rush to the mirror. Messy bun, no makeup, sweatshirt now stained with tea, and eyes that say “please take me to urgent care.”
Perfect.
I crack open the door, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with my headache.
“Jamie,” I say, my voice hoarse.
His eyes scan my face like he’s cataloging symptoms.
"You look like shit," he says gently. “You okay?”
“Gee, thanks.”
Jamie pushes past me without invitation, and my traitorous body does this little flush of heat that starts in my chest and spreads all through my body.
Cut that out,I command my hormones.
They ignore me completely, because apparently even with a migraine, Jamie Striker in my living space is enough to make me wet.
To be fair, he makes it hard not to. He looksgood. His usual dark jeans, a fitted thermal shirt that clings to every delicious muscle, and his hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it all day.
But it's what he's holding that makes my chest tight.
A brown paper bag from Bear Paw Café, a pharmacy bag, and what appears to be a small heating pad still in its packaging.
"Jamie," I start, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. "What are you—"
"Chase said you weren't feeling well," he interrupts, his blue eyes scanning my face with the kind of intensity usually reserved for mountain rescue evaluations. "Are you okay?"
"I said I had a headache, not meningitis."
"You say that," he says, immediately taking over my kitchen as he pulls out the contents from the brown bag. "But I've got reinforcements. Two kinds of soup."
“Soup?” I eye the brown bag as he opens it, pulling out not one but two steaming containers. The smell wafts up instantly. It's a super rich and salty chicken broth, the other a sweet tomato basil with a hint of garlic.
My stomach growls.
“Chicken noodle and tomato basil,” he says. “Betty told me one of them is magical healing. But then Etta and Mabel started arguing about which one it was, and I panicked.”
