Page 20 of Wrecked on the Mountain
"Shut up," I grumble, starting to walk again. "Mom's recipe provides energy, maintains core temperature, tastes better than coffee when you're drinking it at six in the morning."
"Um, did you just say yourmommade this for you?" Brooke stops in her tracks and stares at me. "Sorry. A moment to make fun of that please."
I roll my eyes. "My mom taught me the recipe. I make it myself."
"Sure you do," she says, smirking. "Does she cut the crusts off your sandwiches too?"
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"
"You are such a secret cinnamon roll," she accuses, eventually catching up and falling into step beside me.
"I am not a…" My face scrunches up at the weird selection for an insult. "Wait. What the hell is a cinnamon roll?"
"Tough and gruff on the outside, warm and sweet on the inside." She takes another sip of chocolate and grins at me. "You're like... Mountain Daddy energy wrapped in a pretend-grumpy package."
Mountain Daddy?
The way she says it—teasing and affectionate and just a little bit suggestive—makes me feel weird things.
Because despite how irritating her city-girl aura is… she's right. Idowant to take care of her. I want to make sure she has warm drinks and everything she needs to be safe in my mountains.
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I say eventually, ignoring the heat in my groin at being called a Mountain Daddy.
We walk in silence for a while, checking trail conditions and radio equipment. She asks intelligent questions about our protocols, makes observations about potential hazards, and generally proves that her medical training translates well to wilderness settings.
She also keeps stealing sips of my hot chocolate, and every time she hands the cup back to me, I'm fully aware that her lips just touched the same place mine will.
"So," she says as we reach the halfway point of our loop. "Tell me about the team. How long have you all been working together?"
"Varies," I say, pausing to check a trail marker. "Some of the guys have been here since my dad ran the operation. Others, like Beau, are newer. Chase has been with us about two years."
"He seems nice," she says casually.
Toocasually.
"He's good at his job," I say carefully. "Professional. Reliable."
"But?"
What I want to say is that Chase is a flirt who's probably already planning how to ask her out, and the thought makes me want to break something.
"He's young. Sometimes doesn't think before he acts."
"Young," she repeats thoughtfully. "How young?"
"Twenty-six."
"Ah." She nods like this explains everything. "And how old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"So… ancient."
I stop walking and turn to look at her. "Are you calling me old?"
"I'm calling you experienced," she says with a grin that's definitely flirtatious. "There's a difference."
The way she says "experienced" makes my mind immediately supply several inappropriate images of just how experienced I could be with her.
