Page 2 of Seduced By the Mountain Man

"You've been napping on life for six months," she countered, pulling the activities brochure from her welcome packet. "Look at all this! Hiking, paddleboarding, zip lining... ooh, cliff jumping!"

"Are you trying to kill me?" I groaned.

"I'm trying to wake you up," she replied, her tone softer. "You've been working yourself to death, Dee. When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?"

I couldn't answer that, which was answer enough.

Amber emerged from the bedroom dispute, brochure in hand. "They have a spa! Massages, facials, the works."

My shoulders practically cried out at the word "massage." I hadn't realized how much tension I was carrying until the prospect of relief appeared.

"That," I said, pointing at the brochure, "is exactly what I need before you lunatics drag me off any cliffs. I'm booking a massage. Right now."

"That's the spirit," Whitney approved. "Get some professional relief, then maybe we can find someone to provide a more recreational version later."

I ignored her, using the resort app to book the first available massage slot that afternoon. My shoulders thanked me in advance.

We spent the next hour unpacking and exploring the cabin. I claimed the smallest bedroom, a cozy space with a queen bed and its own bathroom, grateful to have a private retreat. By three o'clock, I was changed into yoga pants and a loose t-shirt, ready for my appointment at the resort spa.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Whitney called as I headed out the door.

"That leaves a terrifying amount of possibilities," I shot back, hearing her laugh as I closed the door behind me.

The journey to the spa building was peaceful, the afternoon sun warm on my skin. I followed a meandering path through gardens bursting with wildflowers, past other cabins and toward the lake shore. The spa occupied a small, elegantbuilding near the water, with large windows and a tranquil fountain outside the entrance.

Inside, the spa welcomed me with muted colors and soft music, the air scented with lavender and eucalyptus. A receptionist greeted me and directed me to a changing room, where I found a plush robe and slippers waiting. I changed quickly, stowing my clothes in a locker, and was led to a dimly lit treatment room.

"Your therapist will be with you shortly," the attendant said. "Just lie face down and make yourself comfortable."

I did as instructed, settling onto the massage table and arranging the sheet over my body. The music playing was some ethereal flute melody that would typically annoy me, but in this setting, it fit perfectly. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, beginning to unwind.

The door opened softly. "I'll be with you in just a moment," said a deep, masculine voice that sent an immediate shock through my system.

I knew that voice.

My eyes snapped open, and I twisted my head to see a broad back turned to me as he arranged bottles on a side table. Even from behind, there was no mistaking those shoulders, the set of that neck, the dark hair cut short but always slightly messy.

No. No way. Not here. Not now.

My mind flashed back six months, to another resort, another state. Jackson Hole. My cousin's wedding. Too much whiskey at the reception. Finding him alone at the hotel bar—Jace Redmond, my brother's best friend since childhood, the man who'd featured in my fantasies since I was sixteen.

I remembered with painful clarity how he'd looked at me that night, really looked at me, maybe for the first time. How one dance had turned into two, how his hand had felt at the small of my back, how we'd ended up in his room with our hands and mouths all over each other. How I'd woken up the next morning to an empty bed and a single text message:

This never happened.

I must have made some sound, because he turned around, those ocean-blue eyes widening briefly before his expression settled into that infuriating half-smirk I knew all too well.

"Hello, Dee," he said, his voice deeper than I remembered. "Wasn't expecting to see you on my table."

My throat went dry. Jace looked exactly the same and somehow better. His white polo with the resort logo stretched across his chest, defining every muscle. His forearms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, were tanned and corded from years of outdoor work. His stubble was perhaps a day or two heavier than the last time I'd seen him.

The last time I'd seen him naked.

"What are you—" I managed, sitting up awkwardly while clutching the sheet to my chest. "Why are you—"

"The regular therapist called in sick," he explained, looking far too amused at my discomfort. "I'm filling in. I run the adventure program here, but I'm certified in sports massage."

Of course he was. Of course Jace Redmond, who excelled at literally everything outdoorsy, would also have healing hands. I'd experienced those hands firsthand, but that was not a memory I needed right now.

---