Jake (Heart River Valley: Montana Protectors #1)
Chapter 1
Jake
I drum my fingers on my truck's steering wheel, watching the jet door open, stairs descending. My military training kicks in automatically, scanning for threats even here in peaceful Montana. Old habits. Hard to break.
My morning's peace feels like a distant memory now. Just hours ago, I'd been in my workshop, finally making progress on the hand-carved bed frame I've been working on for months. The quiet had been perfect - just the scrape of wood against sandpaper, the winter birds at my feeder, the kind of solitude I'd fought hard to build. Then Ryder's call came.
“Just pick up Rachel and her friends,” he'd said. “Storm's coming in. Don't want them driving in this mess.”
Rachel appears first, familiar and bundled against the cold. Then a brunette I recognize as Isabella from the photos Rachel showed me. But the woman who emerges last...
My fingers go still on the wheel. My mouth goes dry.
She moves like a dancer, all fluid grace despite the four-inch heels completely unsuited for Montana winter. Dark waves tumble past her shoulders, and even from this distance, I can see the proud tilt of her chin, the curves that her expensive coat can't hide. Elena Esposito. Has to be. Rachel's former college roommate, the New York art gallery owner.
The way she surveys the mountain landscape reminds me of how I used to assess combat zones – taking in everything, missing nothing. But where my gaze searched for threats, hers holds pure fascination. Her hand drifts to her coat pocket, pulling out a sleek phone. Even from here, I can see the screen lighting up with notifications. She glances at it and frowns, then shoves the phone back in her pocket. It’s probably gallery business in New York. A world away from my quiet mountain town and the simple life I've chosen.
Something stirs in my chest. Something I thought I'd buried years ago, along with my dress uniform and the man I used to be.
Snowflakes begin to fall as I force myself out of the truck. The women haven't noticed me yet, giving me another moment to observe. Elena laughs at something Rachel says, the sound rich and warm against the bitter wind. My body responds instantly to that laugh, a punch of attraction that catches me off guard.
“Ladies.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. All three turn, but I only really see her. Up close, she's even more striking – smooth skin, dark eyes that widen slightly at my appearance, full lips parted in surprise.
“Jake Foster,” I manage. “Ryder asked me to pick you up. Storm's coming in fast.” Professional. Distant. Safe.
Rachel's greeting barely registers. Elena hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. She's studying me with those artist's eyes, like she can see straight through my careful walls to the scars underneath. My hand twitches, wanting to touch the largest one hidden beneath my jacket.
“Ma'am,” I nod to her, proud my voice stays steady.
“Elena,” she corrects, her voice slightly husky. “I'm Elena.”
“I know.” The words slip out before I can stop them, too intense, too revealing. But damn if her slight intake of breath isn't worth it.
I busy myself loading their luggage, hyperaware of her presence, of every movement she makes. Her bags are expensive, pristine leather that's never seen real weather. When she reaches to help, I notice her hands - elegant, manicured, soft. Gallery owner's hands. Artist's hands. Hands that would never know the calluses of ranch work or the rough grip of rope and reins.
The storm is picking up, fat snowflakes catching in her hair. She belongs in a museum, not this wild country that has become my sanctuary. My exile.
The drive will take ten minutes in good weather. Looking at the darkening sky, I calculate double that. Twenty minutes in close quarters with a woman who makes me feel things I have no business feeling.
Elena slides into the back seat, a whiff of her perfume hitting me like a grenade to the senses. Through the rearview mirror, I catch her watching me, notice her quick glance away.
“How long have you been in Montana?” she asks, clearly aiming for casual conversation.
“Long enough.” Long enough to build walls. Long enough to learn to live alone. Long enough to convince myself I prefer it that way.
Until now.
Now, I want to know what those red lips taste like. How they would feel wrapped around my cock. What sounds would escape from them when I have her underneath me, pounding into her, driving her over the edge with pleasure again and again. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles are white, trying to shake the mental image from my mind.
The snow falls harder as we climb into the mountains, wind howling like it does so often during long winter nights. But for the first time in years, I’m wondering what it would be like to not spend those nights alone.
The women strike up a conversation that I tune out, focused on keeping us on the road. But I sneak glances at Elena in the rearview mirror when I can, and each time we lock eyes a jolt of electricity shoots straight down my spine.
Through sheets of white, the main house finally comes into view, warm lights glowing against the storm like a beacon.
Rachel's cheerful “Home sweet home” barely registers. I'm too aware of Elena in my mirror, of how the lights play across her features. My body responds to every small movement she makes, every time her lips part.
I insist on carrying their bags inside, needing the physical activity to ground myself. Anything to distract from imagining her wrapped around me, those manicured nails raking down my back. The weight of the bags is nothing, but I feel Elena's eyes on me as I lift them. The awareness pricks along my skin, making my cock twitch against my jeans.
The foyer of Ryder’s place welcomes us with its familiar scent of pine and cinnamon, but suddenly it feels different. Elena's presence changes everything, makes me see my everyday world through new eyes. I set their bags down and straighten to my full height.
My eyes betray me again, finding her like they're drawn by a magnet. The curve of her hip draws my gaze, the elegant sweep of her neck begging to be tasted. Everything about her is a study in grace that makes me want to mess her up, see her perfectly styled hair wild against my pillows.
“You should be fine here.” My voice comes out rough with barely contained need. “Storm should be over by tomorrow.”
She toys with her necklace, and I track the movement like a starving man. “Thank you for the rescue.”
Heat floods my veins, hunger close behind. “Anytime, ma'am.”
“Elena,” she corrects, her voice soft but insistent.
My mouth quirks despite myself. “Elena.” Her name feels like forbidden fruit on my tongue, sweet and dangerous.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something stupid like back her against the nearest wall. Find out if she tastes as good as she looks.
I make it to the door before my control slips. One last look. Just one. I turn back, let myself really look at her, memorizing every curve that I'll replay in my mind tonight when I'm alone in bed.
“Welcome to Montana,” I say, the words meant only for her.
The storm swallows me as I step outside, but I feel the heat of her gaze following me. My truck starts with a growl that matches my mood. Through swirling snow, I catch a glimpse of movement at the window - Elena, watching me leave.
I grip the steering wheel harder, trying to focus on the treacherous road ahead. But my mind keeps circling back to her. To the way she said her name. To how she'll look spread across my sheets.
I came to Montana to escape. To find peace in solitude. And I had it.
But as I drive away from the woman who's already under my skin, I know with bone-deep certainty that peace is the last thing I'm going to find this winter.