Page 10 of Rescued In The Storm

But I don't move.

I look up to find her watching me, those warm brown eyes reflecting the dim gray light from the single window. There's something in her expression I've never seen before. Or maybe never allowed myself to see. Vulnerability, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my heart beat faster.

The rain hammers relentlessly against the roof, the sound amplified in the small space. A crack of thunder shakes the walls. But inside the cabin everything feels impossibly still.

I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. My hands still holding her ankle, her face just inches above mine as I kneel before her. I can see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the small scar at her temple from when she fell off her bike in sixth grade, the way her eyelashes clump together, still damp from the rain.

This is Sarah. Sarah Miller. The girl who's been selling me coffee and scones every Tuesday for years. My friend since childhood. Not someone I should be noticing like this.

I clear my throat and pull away, rising to my feet too quickly. "Keep that elevated," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

I move to the window, putting distance between us, staring out at the sheets of rain still pummeling the forest. But even with my back turned, I'm aware of her presence, of the sound of the blanket rustling as she adjusts her position on the cot, of her soft exhale as she settles.

Despite my best efforts, my eyes find their way back to her. Once. Twice. Each time, I force my gaze away, only for it to drift back moments later, drawn by some pull I don't want to analyze.

The third time, she catches me looking. Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us—a current I've never felt before with Sarah. Or maybe I have, but never let myself acknowledge it.

She doesn't look away. Neither do I.

ChapterFive

Sarah

The rain finally eases as Connor's truck rumbles down Main Street. After hours trapped in that small cabin—too aware of his every movement, his every glance—the familiar storefronts of Elk Ridge are a welcome distraction. Mrs. Henderson sweeping water from the sidewalk in front of her flower shop. The post office flag whipping in the wind. Everyday sights that somehow look different now, as if the mountain has changed me in some fundamental way.

My ankle throbs beneath the careful wrapping Connor applied. The makeshift splint he fashioned from branches helps, but each bump in the road sends a fresh jolt of pain up my leg.

"Sorry," Connor mutters when we hit a pothole, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "They really need to fix this road."

"It's fine," I say automatically.

We haven't spoken much since leaving the cabin. Once the rain lightened enough to make the trek back to his truck possible, we fell into a silent rhythm. His arm around my waist, my weight against his side, the careful navigation of muddy trails. By the time we reached his vehicle, the storm had mostly passed, leaving behind that particular stillness that follows heavy rain, the forest dripping and renewed.

A sudden thought jolts me. "My car is still at the trailhead."

Connor nods. "I know. I'll take care of it."

"How? I need it for deliveries tomorrow."

"I'll get Rowan to help me bring it down tonight," he says, so matter-of-factly that I believe him instantly. "You're not driving on that ankle anyway."

I start to protest, then stop. He's right. I can barely walk, let alone press a clutch pedal.

As we approach my small house behind the bakery, that strange tension from the cabin lingers between us, a presence as tangible as the humidity.

"You don't have to come in," I tell him as he parks beside my hatchback. "I can manage."

He gives me a look that I've seen thousands of times over the years, usually directed at inexperienced hikers. "I'm helping you inside."

Before I can protest further, he's out of the truck and coming around to my side. He opens the door, then reaches in to help me down, his hands strong and sure on my waist. I try not to lean into his touch, to maintain what little distance I can. But my traitor ankle gives way the moment it touches the ground, and I find myself clutching at his shoulders to stay upright.

"Careful," he says, his voice low, close to my ear.

His arms wrap around me, steadying me, and for a moment, we're as close as we were in that cabin—his chest against mine, his breath warming my cheek. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I wonder if he can feel it.

Then he clears his throat and shifts, keeping one arm around my waist but creating space between us. "Let's get you inside."

The short walk to my front door takes three times longer than normal. Each step is a negotiation, a lesson in patience and pain. Connor matches his pace to mine without comment, solid and dependable beside me.

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