Page 27 of Broken on the Mountain
"Peachy." I smooth my coat, avoiding his eyes. "But I'm still waiting for that coffee."
We reach a particularly treacherous patch where sprayed water from the falls has turned the trail into a slippery nightmare. Chase stands with a grumpy, assessing, and weirdly…sexylook on his face, surveying the earth with the seriousness of a general planning a military campaign.
"Alright, Whitman. Piggyback time."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He turns his back to me and taps his shoulders. "Hop on."
"I'm not—"
"You weigh nothing, and I carry rescue gear that weighs more than you. Now hop on before I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of very expensive potatoes."
I laugh and shake my head. Then I climb onto his back, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist.
He adjusts his grip with an indulgent groan that does things to my insides.
"Comfortable up there?"
"Surprisingly yes."
"Good. Hold tight."
He navigates the slick rocks with the confidence of someone who's done this in worse conditions, probably while hauling actual injured hikers. His hands are warm on my thighs, and I rest my cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in.
This is what safety feels like.
Not the perfection of my Chicago life, but this. Being carried through the dark by someone who'd never let me fall.
Then we move past a thick set of forest pines, and a wall of sound hits me.
A low, hypnotic roar that grows louder with every step, vibrating through the air like white-noise therapy for the soul. Then the trees part, and I gasp.
"Silver Falls," I whisper, my breath heating Chase's ear.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Water spills in silky ribbons over granite cliffs, catching the first hints of dawn in a display that looks Photoshopped. Mist curls around the edges, clinging to ferns and wildflowers and turning the whole scene into something out of a fairy tale.
"Oh my God."
Chase sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. "Told you it was worth the death-defying hike."
"Chase… I… I…" Words don't come as I shake my head at the sight in front of my eyes. "I take back every complaint."
"Even the ones about appropriate wake-up times?"
"Especially those."
He spreads a faded blanket on a flat rock overlooking the pool, then wraps his flannel around my shoulders before I can even shiver. The fabric is warm from his body heat and smells like him. Likehome.
Wait. Not home. Chicago is home.
Right?
Finally,finally,Chase pours coffee from the thermos into two tin cups, and the steam curls between us like a question mark. Then he pulls out a cinnamon roll the size of my face, splits it perfectly down the middle, and hands me half.
"Betty made them fresh this morning. Well, technically yesterday morning, but who cares with a view like this?"
