Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Piper
Chase's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up the winding cobblestone street. The scent of old paper drifts toward us, mixing with the lingering sweetness of my now finished hot chocolate on my tongue.
Soon, I'm staring ahead as dark green ivy climbs a small log cabin like nature's claiming it for herself. Lace curtains flutter in windows that glow with warm amber light, making me feel like I'm floating towards the cabin.
"Here," Chase says, stopping in front of a hand-painted sign that reads The Mountain Bookshop in elegant script.
My heart does something stupid and hopeful.
"A bookshop?"
"Not just any bookshop." His grin turns wicked. "Trust me."
The Mountain Bookshop's bell chimes as we push through the door, and I'm immediately enveloped by the most intoxicating scent combination known to humanity—new books and fresh coffee.
"This place is dangerous," I murmur, already gravitating toward the nearest shelf.
Warm lamps turn everything golden, the low light making me want to grab the nearest paperback and disappear into its pages.
"Why? Because you might actually relax?"
I nod, because… he's right.
Every corner looks like it was designed by someone who understands that reading isn't just a hobby… it's a full-body experience. Overstuffed armchairs. Velvet cushions. A window seat that's begging me to abandon all my big-city responsibilities and live here forever.
I'm already mentally redecorating my life around this place.
I trail my fingers along endless books, marveling at the hand-lettered shelf signs. Swoon-Worthy Reads. Enemies-to-Lovers (with Spice). Grumpy Mountain Men (Fiction... or Not?).
In Chicago, I grab bestsellers from the hospital displays between shifts.
Here, I find myself drawn to a section labeled Local Wildflowers and Trail Guides. What the hell? It's like I'm planning to become a nature photographer now instead of flying back to my sterile life in forty-eight hours.
A chalkboard by the register reads: Wine Tasting Tonight 5–7 — Local Vintners + Romance Rec Pairings.
Chase moves in behind me, pulling out a thick guide with stunning photographs on the cover.
"This one's good," he says, flipping through pages of purple and gold flowers. "Shows you all the best spots locally."
The bookshop clerk—a woman with silver-streaked hair and glasses—appears beside us with a warm smile.
“You two here for the tasting? That kicks off at five. Coffee loft’s open till then.” She glances at the book in Chase's hands. "If you like the meadows, this wildflower guide is the one. Local author, stunning pictures. I think you'll love it."
"We were just heading to Wildflower Meadow for lunch," Chase says, moving closer behind me.
"We were?"
He nods and winks. "Of course."
Something in his voice makes it sound like a regular thing we do instead of a first-time adventure. Maybe I would like that.
The clerk smiles. "Perfect timing, Chase. Everything's in bloom right now."
From behind the cookbook section, a ruggedly handsome man appears. He has a scruffy jaw, fitted flannel, and a smile bigger than his face.
"Well, well, well… Chase taking a date to the meadow?" The man grins even wider. "Didn't see that coming."
"Morning, Charlie. He runs the tavern," Chase explains to me.
I blink at Charlie's warm, amused, and genuinely pleased expression.
Does anyone in this town know how to scowl? Frown? Look even mildly inconvenienced?
In Chicago, strangers perfect their resting bitch face by age twelve.
"You two better bring those smiles to Timber tonight. Burgers are looking good."
Chase slides closer to me, his hand settling on the small of my back as he leans down to whisper, "That's the mountain folk translation for finding a way to put bacon on bacon."
Charlie holds up a recipe book with a picture of a burger the size of a small planet. "And I'm not apologizing. I'll save you a booth."
"Sold," I say without thinking. Apparently I'm the kind of person who commits to bacon-on-bacon situations now.
As well as steamy one-night stands. Go me!
"There's a reading loft upstairs," the clerk mentions, gesturing toward a narrow spiral staircase tucked in the back corner. "Perfect for… browsing?"
"Perfect. We'll take two cups of coffee, thanks," Chase requests kindly, curling his arm around me and leading me towards the staircase.
Soon, Chase climbs the spiral staircase ahead of me, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he balances two steaming mugs without spilling a drop.
I watch him settle into the reading nook, all long limbs and infectious confidence, sunlight catching the green in his eyes.
Have I ever bagged someone this hot?
My sexual trophy case of past conquests suddenly looks pathetic. Corporate lawyers with soft hands don't compare to mountain rescue specialists with calluses and actual heroism.
The loft is everything a book lover's dream should be—a cozy nook with slanted ceilings, built-in bookshelves, and a window seat overlooking Main Street.
Chase settles beside me on the cushioned bench, close enough that our thighs press together, and opens the wildflower guide between us.
"'Finding your true north,'" he reads from the introduction, his voice taking on an exaggerated narrator tone, "'isn't just about navigation. It's about discovering the landscape that calls to your soul.'"
We trade a look that's half laugh, half something much more dangerous.
"That's very philosophical for a flower book," I say.
"Mountain wisdom. We're deep like that."
I lean against his shoulder to get a better look at the photographs, and his free arm comes around me automatically. I sink further into his warmth.
This feels too easy, too right. Like we've been doing this for years instead of… hours?
"Tell me about Chicago," he says, turning pages slowly. "What's a typical day like?"
I think about my actual life.
The 5 AM alarm, the protein smoothie I drink while reviewing patient charts, the constant scheduled social events that feel more like networking than fun.
"It's busy. Structured. My mother sends calendar invites for family dinners three weeks in advance."
"Calendar invites? For dinner?"
"You bet." I smile, but it matches the fake ones I see across the table at those family dinners. "With agenda items. Last month's theme was 'Suitable Marriage Prospects in Healthcare.'"
Chase's laugh rumbles through his chest. "Did you RSVP with feedback?"
"I suggested we table the discussion indefinitely."
His thumb rubs circles on my hip, and I have to concentrate on not melting into a puddle of hormones and bookshop-scented air.
"What about you?" I ask. "Something tells me quiet coffee and flower books aren't exactly a typical Chase Morrison day?"
He chuckles deeply, making my body bounce against his. "Nah, not exactly. During the week, it's equipment checks, training drills… hoping nobody needs rescuing but staying ready in case they do."
"Yeah, yeah. You're a professional hero. I get it."
His grin widens as we share a laugh. "Weekends are better though. Hanging with the guys. Jamie, Beau, whoever's around. We eat too much, drink beer, give each other shit about everything."
"Sounds exhausting."
His voice softens as he shrugs. "It's perfect. But I try to get out on the trails when I can. Staying connected to nature… it matters, you know? Reminds me why I'm here instead of…"
He trails off, but I catch the shadow that crosses his face.
"Instead of where?"
"Anywhere else." He turns another page of the wildflower guide, but his jaw tightens. "This place saved me. Gave me purpose when I needed it most."
Saved him? I know a wound when I hear it, even wrapped in a joke. It makes me want to bandage whatever bled.
I lean closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder through his shirt.
We sit in comfortable quiet, sipping coffee and flipping through photographs of meadows and mountain peaks. His thumb continues its maddening circles, making my insides all gooey and warm.
When we finally head back downstairs, Chase quietly approaches the counter while I'm distracted by a display of local authors. I don't notice what he's doing until he hands me the wildflower guide with something tucked inside.
"I hope you don't mind, but I got you something," he says, that shy smile making an appearance. "For when city life gets overwhelming."
I open the book to find a tiny compass bookmark nestled between the pages, delicate and brass and completely perfect. The inscription reads True North in flowing script.
"Chase..." My voice comes out softer than I've ever heard it.
"For trail emergencies," he says, echoing his gummy bear excuse, but his cheeks are definitely pink.
I press the bookmark to my lips like a secret kiss before slipping it into my coat pocket. "Thank you."
He taps the book's cover. "Lunch break study session?"
"Only if there's sunshine."
His grin could power the entire mountain. "Come on. I know exactly where to take you."
We swing by Brooke's cabin where my luggage is so I can change out of last night's dress. Lucky for me, she's not home, so five minutes later, I'm in jeans and a simple top, keeping my coat for warmth.
I keep Chase's flannel layered over everything because the soft fabric smells like him.
"Looking very local," he teases, eyes crinkling as I climb back in the truck.
The drive to Wildflower Meadow takes fifteen minutes through winding mountain roads that make my Chicago driving skills feel completely inadequate.
Chase navigates the curves with easy confidence, one hand on the wheel of his enormous truck, the other resting on my knee in a way that makes concentration impossible.
Then, around a sweeping corner, the road opens suddenly into an explosion of color.
"Oh wow… This is..." I trail off, because there aren't words.
Purple lupines, golden buttercups, delicate bluebells, and bursts of violet fireweed create a living kaleidoscope that stretches all the way up toward snow-capped peaks. The air bursting through Chase's open window smells like honey and sun-warmed grass.
"Yeah," Chase says simply, like he understands. "Pretty incredible."
When we pull up, he shakes out a faded flannel blanket from his truck and unpacks simple sandwiches, kettle chips, and two sodas. Everything about this moment feels simultaneously brand new and like coming home.
"Turkey and swiss cheese," he says, handing me a sandwich wrapped in brown paper. "Figured you for a classic."
"Good guess."
We settle on the blanket with the wildflower guide propped between us, and Chase pulls out the compass bookmark to demonstrate proper navigation techniques.
"Find east," he says, sitting behind me and guiding my hand with the compass. His chest presses against my back, and his voice rumbles against my ear. "Good. Now sight the ridge—there you go."
"If I get lost, will you come find me?" I ask, leaning back into his warmth.
"Every time," he says, staring deep into my eyes.
We eat while naming clouds and identifying flowers with the guide. A bee hums lazily past, and somewhere in the distance, a creek bubbles over stones.
In my coat pocket, my phone buzzes with what I know is a calendar reminder from my mother. Probably something about the charity luncheon next weekend. Or the dermatologist appointment she scheduled for me without asking.
I silence it without looking and nudge the flower guide closer instead.
Chase tucks a tiny purple bloom behind my ear, then pulls out his phone to snap a selfie.
"For the evidence file," he says, but his cheeks go pink when he realizes how sentimental that sounds.
"Evidence of what?"
"That Piper Whitman knows how to have fun."
We lie back on the blanket, shoulder to shoulder, watching clouds drift across an impossibly blue sky.
This could be a life, I think suddenly.
Not just a weekend escape, but an actual life. Friday afternoon drives to meadows. Impromptu picnics. A man who carries gummy bears and compass bookmarks and looks at me like I'm something precious.
But then reality crashes in like ice water.
This isn't my life.
This is a weekend fantasy. A temporary escape from calendar invites and charity galas and parents who've already chosen my entire future.
Even if I come back on weekends, this will never truly be mine. I'll always be the outsider. The city girl playing dress-up in borrowed flannels and pretending I know the difference between lupines and fireweed.
"Dinner at Timber?" Chase asks, shouldering his backpack.
His smile is pure sunshine, and I'm already addicted to being the reason for it.
"Burgers are looking good," I say, echoing Charlie's promise from earlier.
Soon, I'll board a plane back to Chicago. Back to my penthouse and twelve-hour shifts and the suffocating weight of my parents' ridiculous expectations.
Chase will go back to rescuing people who belong here. People who understand mountain life and don't need compass bookmarks because they already know their 'true north'.
We head down the trail laughing about something ridiculous, I can't even remember what. All I know is my mind is a million miles from Chicago, from calendar invites and suitable marriage prospects and the life waiting for me back home.
And these feelings… this dangerous, terrifying warmth blooming in my chest… it will fade like wildflowers at the end of summer.
No catching feelings.
I need to remember that.
Before I do something stupid.
Like fall for a man I can never truly have.