Page 37 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

And with a kiss to my forehead, he’s gone.

No hesitation.

I’d be offended anyone else had done that, but how can I when it’s Gage? He’s such a fierce protector of the animals and… I love that about him.

So how could I resent something that makes me love him so much?

Even if what he’s doing terrifies me.

Taking a deep breath, I pull on some clothes and make myself a cup of tea. Whiskey’s curled on the couch, tail flicking in irritation.

“I know,” I say, half-laughing, half-shaking. “I know. I miss him too.”

Cradling my steaming mug in one hand, I retrieve my phone with the other. I have one bar. Barely. But hopefully it’ll be enough.

There’s someone I need to call. Someone I’ve barely spoken to in the past week.

I tap the screen, scroll to Harper’s name, and hit video call.

She picks up on the second ring.

“TESSA!” Her face fills the screen—messy bun, giant hoop earrings, and a backdrop of palm trees and pristine white curtains. “You’ve been so quiet lately. I thought you were off the grid.”

“Not completely off the grid. Just… in the woods.”

Her eyes narrow. “Okay, what the hell are you wearing? And is that… wood paneling?”

I flip the camera around, showing her the fireplace, the exposed beams, the worn-in charm of Gage’s cabin. A steaming mug on the table. Whiskey yawning like this is just another Tuesday.

She gasps. “You’re not in some murder basement—you’re in a Nancy Meyers cabin fantasy.”

I grin. “It’s not fancy. But it’s real.”

She squints. “Tessa. You’re glowing. Are those trees really outside”

“Yeah. There’s trees and mountains. And foxes. And judgmental owls named Archie.”

She laughs. Then narrows her eyes again. “You’re not coming to Las Vegas, are you?”

I hesitate.

Then shake my head. “No. I’m not. I think I’ve found where I’m supposed to be.”

“You mean the guy?”

I smile. “Not just the guy. But yeah… him too.”

Her voice softens. “Tell me.”

So I do. I tell her about the wildlife rescue. About the smell of cedar in the morning and the way I’ve started sketching again—just for me.

I tell her about Gage. About the quiet way he holds space. About the scar on his cheek and the storm that brews in his eyes and the way he looks at me like I’m the best thing in the world.

And I tell her how, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong. Like I’m not just surviving.

Like maybe I’ve stopped searching for some meaning in my life.

She nods, blinking fast. “Well… shit. I kind of hate how romantic that is.”

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