Claimed in the Wylde (Wylde Mountain Rescue #2)

Chapter 1

Madison

There are several life choices that have led me to this exact moment.

Choice number one: quitting a perfectly respectable marketing job to chase my "authentic culinary vision."

Choice number two: deciding that vision meant driving a food truck across several states instead of finding one location to grow from.

Choice number three: believing the weather forecast that said "light flurries possible."

Light flurries, my cinnamon-glazed butt.

Snow is currently blowing sideways across Wylde Mountain like winter forgot it’s May. It’s the first week of the month. The calendar insists it’s spring. Spring, however, is apparently lost somewhere between Idaho and denial.

I grip the steering wheel of my truck and squint at the street lined with rustic storefronts, snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar on one of my cinnamon buns. Which would be poetic. If I wasn’t actively panicking.

"Okay," I mutter to myself. "You have driven through Denver traffic. You have parallel parked in downtown Seattle. You can absolutely park a food truck in a quaint mountain town."

The truck lurches as a gust of wind hits it broadside.

Quaint. Mountain. Town.

What was I thinking?

Right. Content.

Wylde Mountain is trending. Rugged cabins.

Outdoor lifestyle. Big flannel energy. I had a whole campaign planned: Peak Bites Goes Wild.

I even considered special-edition cinnamon buns shaped like little mountain peaks.

The irony is not lost on me that I might die in a snowdrift before selling a single one.

I ease the truck forward. Too far left. Correct. Too far right. Why is the curb closer than it looks? Why is everything closer than it looks?

There are people watching. Of course there are.

My jaw tightens. I am an independent business owner. I designed this truck. I have a loyal online following and a waitlist for my brown butter cinnamon rolls.

"Okay," I whisper. "We are calm. We are capable. We are not reversing into a bookstore with a couple watching through the window on day one."

The back wheel bumps something. I freeze. Please don’t be a historic wooden planter. Please don’t be a moose statue. Please don’t be—

A knock sounds on my driver’s window.

Slow. Solid. Confident.

I turn.

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at the angle of my truck. Then at me.

I open the door, getting out to assess my parking job so far. But when my eyes meet his, my brain fully, completely, unhelpfully short-circuits.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wind-tossed dark hair and gorgeous hazel eyes. Flannel shirt pulled tight over shoulders that look like they were carved specifically to chop firewood for fun. His expression is neutral.

"Need a spotter?" he finally asks.

His voice is low. Calm. Like I’m not actively committing vehicular embarrassment.

"I’ve got it," I say brightly.

His gaze flicks to the curb.

"You don’t."

Rude.

Accurate.

Still rude.

"I’ve parked in tighter spaces," I inform him.

"Not in a storm like this."

Then I notice the wind shifting again. It’s colder. Early May in Montana, ladies and gentlemen. Where I’m learning spring is a rumor and winter never actually leaves.

"It’s not supposed to stick," I say weakly.

He looks up at the sky.

"It will."

He says it with the kind of certainty that suggests he and the weather are on speaking terms.

Another gust hits the side of the truck, rocking it slightly.

Okay. Maybe assistance is not a personal failure.

"Fine," I sigh and climb back into my food truck.

He steps back, hands in his jacket pockets.

"Two feet left."

I adjust.

"Straight."

Adjust.

"Easy..."

The truck inches forward.

"Stop."

I stop.

He walks back to my window.

"Good job."

Relief floods through me in a very unprofessional way.

"See? Nailed it."

"You almost took out the planter."

"It was a gentle nudge."

"It’s been there since 1948."

"Then it’s sturdy."

For the first time, his mouth almost curves. Almost. And that tiny almost does something extremely inconvenient to my pulse.

He glances at the logo on the side of my truck.

"Peak Bites by Madison," he reads.

"That’s me."

"Madison."

The way he says it makes my name feel heavier. Grounded.

"What’s your name?" I ask.

"Jake."

Of course it is. Short. Solid. No frills. Very him.

He steps closer to the truck, snow collecting on his shoulders.

"You staying long?" he asks.

"Just a quick visit. I wanted to get some content for my social media accounts."

He looks toward the darkening sky again, then leans closer.

"You might be here a while longer than that. Weather’s turning," he says quietly. "This isn’t a tourist flurry. It’s one of those early spring dumps. Roads will probably close later."

"I checked the forecast."

"You checked the internet," he says calmly. "I checked the sky."

Why is that attractive? It shouldn’t be attractive. It absolutely is.

My brain finally catches up to the rest of whatever I’m doing. "Hey, can I offer you something as a thank-you for helping me park?"

I step to the back and flip open the service window before he can respond.

"Welcome to Peak Bites! What can I tempt you with?" I give him my best customer-friendly smile.

Jake leans casually against the side of the truck like he has nowhere else to be. Like he’s not the only thing I’m suddenly hyperaware of.

"Surprise me," he says.

Oh. Confident. I like that.

I hand him a container after warming it up — one of my signature brown butter cinnamon buns.

He takes a bite. And everything shifts. His eyes widen slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough. Like he didn’t expect that. Like he doesn’t get surprised often.

"Well?" I ask.

He chews slowly. Swallows.

"That’s…" He pauses. "Dangerous."

I beam.

"Good dangerous?"

He takes another bite.

"Very."

There are people behind him now. A couple standing back a little, openly watching. The woman nudges the man and whispers something that makes them both grin. I pretend not to notice.

Two cute girls about my age walk past, bundled in matching beanies and boots.

"Jake!" one of them calls brightly. "We’re grabbing drinks. You should come warm up with us. Remember how much fun we had last time?"

He doesn’t even turn his head.

"Not tonight," he says, eyes still on me.

The girls exchange a look. Disappointed.

I suddenly become very aware of the flour on my apron. And very annoyed that I am aware.

Jake doesn’t look away from me.

"You make these yourself?" he asks, as if that exchange didn’t even happen.

"Every single one."

"From scratch?"

"Obviously."

He studies me for a second. Assessing. Like he’s deciding something. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a card. Hands it to me.

"If you’re still up here tomorrow," he says, "call if you need anything."

Anything.

Not "a mechanic."

Not "directions."

Anything.

My cheeks warm, which is deeply annoying because I do not blush for strangers. I tuck the card into my apron pocket, biting my tongue to stop from making a joke about people still handing out business cards.

"I won’t need rescuing," I say lightly.

His gaze drifts once more to the sky. Snow is falling harder now.

"We’ll see," he says.