Page 1 of Broken on the Mountain
Chapter One
Piper
I wake up and my first coherent thought is:What the hell did I do last night?
The second thought, as I take in the exposed brick walls and vintage rescue equipment scattered around like expensive art pieces, is:Oh God, I climbed a fire escape.
The third thought, as my eyes land on the absolutely ridiculous specimen of male perfection sprawled naked beside me, is:Fuck. I am in so much trouble.
Chase Morrison's apartment is everything my sterile Chicago penthouse isn't.
Where I have minimalist white furniture and carefully curated art my father gifted me for my birthday, he has a leather couch that's actually been lived on and bookshelves crammed with dog-eared novels and rescue manuals.
There is also what appears to be actual climbing gear hanging from hooks like it's been used recently. It's not decorative, nota 'feature of masculinity' put there to give the impression of strength and power.
It's authentic and real.
The man in question is lying on his stomach beside me, one arm flung over the pillow, the white sheet riding dangerously low on his hips. The morning sunlight filling the apartment highlights every ridge of muscle across his shoulders and down his back, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from where the sheet barely covers his ass.
Focus, Piper. Gather your dignity along with your dress and get out.
I'm wearing his flannel shirt, which hits me mid-thigh and smells like the forest. My head is pounding from what I'm pretty sure was an entire bottle of wine, and my designer dress is somewhere on the floor, probably wrinkled beyond salvation.
My mother is going to kill me. She paid a fortune for that dress and hasn't shut up about it ever since she and Dad got back from Paris a month ago.
I seriously need to find my underwear and leave before he wakes up.
Perhaps I should consider changing my flight. Make damn sure I'm entirely out of the way before he even notices I'm gone.
But the hardwood floors of the apartment are ancient and character-filled, which is a polite way of saying they creak like a haunted house with every step.
I creep and tiptoe toward where I think I saw my thong last night, stepping carefully around empty beer bottles and a half-finished crossword puzzle on a small coffee table.
At twenty-nine years old, I'm finally doing the walk of shame. Myfirstwalk of shame.
The worst part? I don't actually want to leave.
His apartment tells a story that my penthouse never could. There's a rescue helmet on the coffee table next to a mug that'sstill half full. Like he got home after being a hero and was so tired he couldn't finish his drink.
There are even hiking boots by the door that are actually muddy. And a guitar in the corner that looks played, not displayed at the right angle for 'aesthetics'.
"Well, well. If it isn't my midnight fire escape climber."
I freeze, my hand halfway to my underwear, which is apparently hanging from a lamp shade like some kind of lingerie art installation.
Chase's deep voice is rough with sleep, and when I turn around, he's propped up on one elbow, grinning at me with devastating charm.
Sweet Jesus.
If I thought Chase Morrison was attractive yesterday, seeing him rumpled and naked in morning light is like staring directly into the sun… painful, but in the best possible way.
His sandy brown hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in directions that suggest my fingers spent considerable time last night running through it. Those hazel eyes with their green edges are studying me with lazy intensity, like he's got all the time in the world to memorize every inch of mestillwearing his shirt.
He's ruggedly beautiful in a way that makes my perfectly manicured life feel utterly ridiculous.
His chest is a masterpiece of lean muscle, built from actual work rather than expensive personal trainers. The sheet has shifted even lower, and I can see the cut of his hip bones, the trail of hair that leads down to—
Oh my God. Stop staring at his penis, Piper!
