Page 15 of Wrecked on the Mountain
The building keeps surprising me as we move around the tangled maze of rooms, walkways and storage facilities.
We pass a lounge area with leather furniture that looks like it belongs in an expensive ski lodge, complete with a stone fireplace and a full bar.
"Do you live here?" I ask, only half-joking.
"Sometimes feels like it," he admits. "But no, we just believe in taking care of the team. Happy team members make better rescuers."
Happy team members.Right. Because apparently this place operates on the revolutionary principle that treating people well gets better results.
My dad would havelovedthis philosophy.
"The gear room," Jamie announces, opening a door that reveals what can only be described as outdoor equipment porn.
Everything is organized with military-styled precision, but also... beautiful? The ropes are color-coded and hung on custom wooden pegs. The backpacks are arranged by size and function. There are heated boot racks, a gear-washing station, and is that a fuckingvending machinein the corner?
"You have a vending machine in your gear room," I say, because apparently my brain has latched onto this as the most important detail.
"Long operations," Jamie shrugs, but I catch the hint of embarrassment. "Fuel and sustenance is critical for performance."
There's a wooden bowl on one of the counters filled with expensive chocolates. Not cheap candy—actual artisanal chocolates wrapped in gold foil.
"Are those..." I start.
"Martha's weakness," he explains quickly. "She orders them from some fancy place in Seattle. Says sugar improves morale."
Jamie tosses a gold-wrapped chocolate my way. I snatch it from the air on reflex, surprising myself with the quick movement. His bright blue eyes light up, impressed.
"Good hands, Doc. You'll need those here."
"This is the most luxurious mountain rescue station in existence," I say, unwrapping the chocolate and popping it in my mouth.
Oh my God.It's salted caramel with a hint of bourbon, and it literally melts on my tongue like edible silk.
"We work hard around here," Jamie says, watching me react to the chocolate with an intensity that makes my nipples tighten. "So we deserve nice things."
The way he's looking at me… like he's imagining exactly how that chocolate tastes in my mouth… makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Speaking of nice things," he adds with that dangerous grin. "The town's having its annual winter festival next weekend. The whole team participates, and as your boss, I've got something special planned for this year."
The way he says "boss" drips with suggestion, like he's tasting the word and finding it deliciously satisfying.
My pulse quickens as I wonder if the idea of him beingbossyis turning him on as much as it's affecting me.
Because God help me, the thought of Jamie telling me exactly what to do is making my skin feel two sizes too small.
"Something special?" I ask curiously.
"Hope you're not afraid of a little cold water, Doc." His eyes glitter with mischief. "That's all I'm saying."
But this professional, almost charming man seems at odds with the arrogant neighbor who mocked my wood-chopping yesterday.
Is this the real Jamie, or just his workplace persona?
I've seen plenty of doctors transform when they put on their white coats. All compassion for patients, then pure venom in the break room.
Which version of Jamie Striker is authentic?
"So what's my role here?" I ask, trying to redirect this conversation before I do something phenomenally stupid like lick chocolate off my lips while staring at his mouth.
