Page 6 of Wild Peak

“Please. Thank you.”

The cabin door swings open, and my brother’s best friend disappears inside.

Deep within, floorboards creak and cupboards click shut, then there’s the drum of a faucet into a sink. Gusting out a long breath, I wriggle around so I can prop my bad ankle up on the wicker sofa, then I lean back and let my eyes fall closed. It really has been a long day already.

There’s the whispering breeze.

The scent of pine and mossy wet rock.

That dull ache in my ankle, hot and uncomfortable but already weaker than before.

Sunshine is warm against my eyelids, and my breaths slow down as I wait for Hunter to come back. He’s pottering around inside his cabin, opening and closing cupboards and muttering to himself in that low voice. Listening to him, I melt into the sofa, boneless. So relaxed. So relieved.

When was the last time I unwound like this? When did I last let my guard down so fully, letting all of my anxious thoughts drift away? It’s been years, definitely. Since the last time I sawhim.

Hunter.

I can’t believe my brother’s best friend is only a few steps away. Can’t believe how much he’s changed in a few short years, going from chatty Mr Popular to this rugged mountain recluse.

Can’t believe he brought me back to his cabin. His manly fortress of solitude.

Can’t believe he still cares.

Four

Hunter

All I can say is thank god for all that Mountain Rescue training, because my first aid supplies arestocked.Honestly, there are preparations in this cabin for any accident or disaster you can think of, and I’ve never been more grateful for my weird prepper inclinations than I am right now.

“Doing okay out there?” I call, placing another roll of fresh bandages on the tray I’m filling up. It’s already laden with antiseptic wipes, numbing cream, painkillers, and a granola bar for that much needed sugar hit. The bulky first aid kit is tucked under my arm, along with a big bottle of water.

No answer. I pause, straining to hear, but there’s still no reply.

“Brooke?”

Is she okay?

Gritting my teeth, I grab a handful of extra band aids and toss them onto the tray, then march back out to the warm spring sunshine.

Brooke is stretched out on my wicker sofa, snoozing peacefully. Her ankle is propped up, and her brown hair splays out over the sofa cushions, shining chestnut in the sun. Her pink lips are parted. Her chest rises and falls with each breath.

I stand there for way, way too fucking long.

Just staring.

Wanting.

Absorbing every damn detail of this woman; each faint freckle on the bridge of her nose and glossy strand of her hair. The perfect curves beneath her t-shirt and leggings, and the softness of her skin.

Christ, Brooke looks like she would feel like satin beneath my fingertips. Smooth and warm and addictive. Would she gasp for me? Would she moan?

Stop.

See, it’s that kind of thinking that chased me all the way up into these peaks, turning me into a recluse before I even hit thirty. Brooke is my best friend’s little sister, for god’s sake. A good man would never think of her that way.

And Brooke deserves a good man. She deserves the best, always.

“Brooke.” My throat is tight, and I cough to clear it. “Wake up, sweetheart. I need to fix up your bumps and bruises.”

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