Page 42 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

I don’t look up but smirk. “It’s not my fault the world loves seeing rescued foxes in tiny knitted sweaters. Or watching a video of you cooing to said foxes for being itty bitty precious babies.”

There’s a beat, then the floor creaks. My man appears at the railing—shirtless, tousled, grinning like a man who was woken up to more than fresh baked cinnamon rolls. Which, to be fair, he was. There’s must something about a snow day that makes me want to jump this man.

“You’re a menace,” he says.

“And you’re lucky I use my powers for good.” My lips twitch. “Mostly.”

Since I decided to make my stay in Misty Mountain more permanent, Gage quickly put me to work. Only, he gave me a promotion. Now, I don’t just help much the barn or help care for the animals in our clubhouse. I’m using my marketing and design expertise to promote the rescue.

Within a month, I’d revamped the rescues brand and launched multi-channel social media platforms. Since then, things have kind of exploded. We’ve received an outpouring of donations, volunteers, and calls from an animal rescue agency in Alaska waning to collaborate.

Even a Denver news channel featured us and our work last month.

Apparently the internet can’t resist getting regular updates about our eclectic menagerie of animals.

And they can’t get enough footage of a seemingly grouchy animal whisperer with a heart of gold and a cat who has become a little caretaker to all himself.

It’s busier now. A little more noisy than when I first arrived. But it feels more like home. For all of us.

Gage comes downstairs and drops a kiss to the top of my head on his way to refill our coffees. It’s like he can’t walk past me without touching me. I love that about him.

I mean, I love all of him.

“What’s on the schedule today, boss?” I ask, leaning into his side as he settles beside me with an arm draped over my shoulders.

“We have two new arrivals.” He rests his cheek against my head, pulling me close. “There’s another orphaned fox kit and a fawn who wandered too close to the highway. Both should be coming in by noon.”

“And after?”

He hesitates, fingers brushing his coat pocket.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re being weird.”

He stands and offers his hand. “Put on your boots. I want to show you something.”

***

That afternoon, after our new charges are settled and our existing residences have been cared for, we take the trail behind the cabin. Gage’s hand wraps around mine, warm and steady.

The snow has stopped falling. It’s soft and not too deep. But with the sun out in full force, everything around us seems to glitter. We pass the frozen stream, and climb a ridge I haven’t noticed before.

The trees open suddenly, and there it is.

A small cabin. One room. Smoke curling from the chimney. A wide window faces the clearing.

My breath catches. “What is this?”

He pulls a key from his pocket and presses it into my hand. “Go on.”

I open the door, heart pounding, and step inside.

It’s perfect.

It’s a one-room studio with high ceilings and tall bookshelves. There’s a wide desk already stocked with my favorite art supplies and two giant monitors.

There’s a soft reading chair under the window. My espresso machine is on the counter counter. There’s even a corkboard covered in pinned sketches and notes.

One stands out.

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