Page 11 of Rescued In The Storm

My key sticks in the lock as it always does, requiring the particular jiggle I've perfected over years. Connor watches, then takes the key from my fingers.

"Left, then up," I instruct, too tired to insist on doing it myself.

He follows my directions, and the door swings open to reveal my small, cluttered living room—the oversized armchair draped with a half-finished knitting project, books stacked on nearly every surface, the collection of mismatched teacups arranged on the windowsill. It's nothing like the polished perfection of the lodge, and I feel a sudden pang of self-consciousness.

"Sorry for the mess," I say.

Connor shakes his head as he helps me to the couch. "This isn't a mess. This is..." His eyes sweep the room. "This is you."

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an observation. Before I can decide, he's kneeling in front of me again, helping me prop my injured ankle on a cushion.

"You should ice this," he says. "Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And keep it elevated."

"I know," I say. "This isn't my first sprain."

He rises to his feet, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "This is a bad one. Don’t underestimate it."

There's something in his gaze that makes my chest tighten. Concern, yes, but also a warmth that I'm afraid to interpret. It's the same look he had in the cabin, the one that made me think, just for a moment, that maybe...

But no. This is Connor. He would do the same for anyone.

"I'll get you some ice," he says, already heading toward my kitchen.

"Second drawer from the fridge," I call after him. "There are zip-top bags in there."

I listen to him moving around my kitchen—opening drawers, the clatter of ice cubes, the running of water. It's strange having him here, in my space. In all the years I've known him, Connor has never been inside my house. Our interactions have always been at the bakery, or the lodge, or passing on the street. In public places with clear boundaries.

Now those boundaries feel blurred, like the edges of the mountains in morning mist.

He returns with an ice pack wrapped in a clean dish towel. "This should do the trick."

I accept it. "Thank you. For everything. I'm sorry you had to rescue me."

"Don't apologize." He settles into the armchair across from me, moving my knitting to the side with careful hands. "Just promise me something?"

"What?"

"Next time you want to go hiking, tell me. We'll go together."

The offer sends a flutter through my chest that I immediately try to suppress. This isn't special treatment. Connor takes people hiking for a living. It's what he does.

"I don't think I'll be hiking again anytime soon," I say with a weak smile.

"Not until that ankle's better, no." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you need anything else? Food? Water? I can grab whatever you need before I go."

His solicitousness both warms and stings. I want to believe it means something, that his care extends beyond basic human decency. But I've spent too many years watching Connor Callahan from afar, too many Tuesdays seeing him walk out of my bakery without a backward glance, to let myself fall into that trap.

"I'm fine," I say, perhaps too firmly. "Really. You've done more than enough."

I remember my car again and dig into my pocket, pulling out my keys. "For my car," I say, holding them out. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."

He takes the keys, his fingers brushing mine. "No trouble."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods, pushing to his feet. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

"You don't have to?—"

"I know." Our eyes meet, and there's that something again, that unreadable expression that makes my pulse quicken. "I want to."

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