Page 26 of Broken on the Mountain
"Best light's at dawn. Plus, it's your last day." Disappointment flickers across his face before the early-riser energy bounces back. "Come on. Live a little!"
"Fine. But you better have coffee."
I slam the window so hard the glass rattles, then press my forehead against the cold glass where his breath fogged it seconds ago. Through the darkness outside, a security light flashes so I see Chase strut back up the side of the cabin before disappearing from view.
My reflection stares back at me. Wild blonde hair, mascara smudged like a racoon in mourning, wearing nothing but Chase's flannel and a deep sense of regret.
A heavy sigh leaves my chest.
Why did last night end with that awkward kiss at the door? Why didn't he take me back to his apartment? Back to hisbed? Where he belongs shirtless and tangled in sheets and swinging his cock around like a damn helicopter.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, tripping over my own abandoned stilettos.
What if he's already over this? Over me? What if the glorious, life-altering sex really was a one-time thing?
A horrifying thought strikes.
Oh my God. Did I snore?! Is that what this is all about?!
The ridiculousness of my stay in Stone River hits me. Here I am, Piper Whitman, heiress to a fortune and a lifetime of impeccably curated choices, panicking because a man with calloused hands and a gummy bear addictiondidn'tdrag me back to his lair.
Brooke's right. Maybe mountain air does rot your brain.
Or maybe... I just really want to see him naked again.
Half an hour later, and still no caffeine in my blood stream, I'm stumbling down a trail that's barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness. I managed to slip into some jeans, two tops, my very expensive coat… and the most impractical flats known to mankind.
"If I die," I announce, grabbing a tree branch for balance, "please write 'at least she tried' on my tombstone. At least that would please my mother."
"You won't die." Chase glances back, his headlamp flashing. "Not on my watch. But those shoes are not fit for the mountains."
"I love these shoes! They're Prada."
"They're a death wish."
As if to prove his point, my foot hits a slick root and slides sideways. I flail, arms windmilling, certain I'm about to become one with the forest floor.
Chase catches me with one arm, steady as a mountain himself.
"Easy there, Chicago."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Partly from the near-death experience, partly from the way his hand spans my waist like he's done this a thousand times.
"I hate hiking," I lie.
"No, you don't."
He's right. I don't. Not when it's with him.
Yesterday was practically perfect. Breakfast with him and the town gossips, that adorable bookshop, the compass he gave me. Dinner alone, then with the impromptu arrival of half his work friends, all those drinks, that slow dance where his hand slid lower on my back with every turn...
And still…
Still, I went to bed alone.
What’s a girl got to do around here? Wear a sign? Whiskey courage only gets you so far when the man has more self-control than a monk.
Chase adjusts his grip on my waist, steadying me. "You okay?"
