Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Piper
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I shoot upright in Brooke's guest bed like a vampire avoiding daylight.
Oh god, bears. Mountain lions. Axe murderers.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The noise gets louder and I fumble for the nearest weapon, which turns out to be my ridiculously soft silk pillow.
I hold it like a shield anyway. "Back, you woodland creature! I went to Swiss finishing school!"
The banging continues somewhere behind me. Right. The windows.
I rub my eyes, squinting at my phone. Four-thirty in the morning.
Four. Fucking. Thirty.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, stumbling out of bed in Chase's flannel shirt that I definitely haven't stolen forever. The floor is freezing against my bare feet, and I'm half-convinced I'm being murdered by an overly punctual mountain bear.
I crank the window open anyway, ready to deliver a scathing lecture about appropriate visiting hours, and find Chase Morrison grinning at me.
He's holding a thermos and a brown paper bag that smells like cinnamon and butter. He's already dressed, wearing that stupid flannel that makes his shoulders look unfairly broad.
"Morning, sunshine."
"Fuck off."
He just laughs and blows a breath that fogs the window. "Not a morning person, eh?"
"It's not morning. It's the middle of the night."
His laugh is warm and unapologetic. "Come on, city girl. Get dressed. We're going to Silver Falls."
"Now?"
"Best light's at dawn. Plus, it's your last day." Disappointment flickers across his face before the early-riser energy bounces back. "Come on. Live a little!"
"Fine. But you better have coffee."
I slam the window so hard the glass rattles, then press my forehead against the cold glass where his breath fogged it seconds ago. Through the darkness outside, a security light flashes so I see Chase strut back up the side of the cabin before disappearing from view.
My reflection stares back at me. Wild blonde hair, mascara smudged like a racoon in mourning, wearing nothing but Chase's flannel and a deep sense of regret.
A heavy sigh leaves my chest.
Why did last night end with that awkward kiss at the door? Why didn't he take me back to his apartment? Back to his bed? Where he belongs shirtless and tangled in sheets and swinging his cock around like a damn helicopter.
I shuffle toward the bathroom, tripping over my own abandoned stilettos.
What if he's already over this? Over me? What if the glorious, life-altering sex really was a one-time thing?
A horrifying thought strikes.
Oh my God. Did I snore?! Is that what this is all about?!
The ridiculousness of my stay in Stone River hits me. Here I am, Piper Whitman, heiress to a fortune and a lifetime of impeccably curated choices, panicking because a man with calloused hands and a gummy bear addiction didn't drag me back to his lair.
Brooke's right. Maybe mountain air does rot your brain.
Or maybe... I just really want to see him naked again.
Half an hour later, and still no caffeine in my blood stream, I'm stumbling down a trail that's barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness. I managed to slip into some jeans, two tops, my very expensive coat… and the most impractical flats known to mankind.
"If I die," I announce, grabbing a tree branch for balance, "please write 'at least she tried' on my tombstone. At least that would please my mother."
"You won't die." Chase glances back, his headlamp flashing. "Not on my watch. But those shoes are not fit for the mountains."
"I love these shoes! They're Prada."
"They're a death wish."
As if to prove his point, my foot hits a slick root and slides sideways. I flail, arms windmilling, certain I'm about to become one with the forest floor.
Chase catches me with one arm, steady as a mountain himself.
"Easy there, Chicago."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Partly from the near-death experience, partly from the way his hand spans my waist like he's done this a thousand times.
"I hate hiking," I lie.
"No, you don't."
He's right. I don't. Not when it's with him.
Yesterday was practically perfect. Breakfast with him and the town gossips, that adorable bookshop, the compass he gave me. Dinner alone, then with the impromptu arrival of half his work friends, all those drinks, that slow dance where his hand slid lower on my back with every turn...
And still…
Still, I went to bed alone.
What’s a girl got to do around here? Wear a sign? Whiskey courage only gets you so far when the man has more self-control than a monk.
Chase adjusts his grip on my waist, steadying me. "You okay?"
"Peachy." I smooth my coat, avoiding his eyes. "But I'm still waiting for that coffee."
We reach a particularly treacherous patch where sprayed water from the falls has turned the trail into a slippery nightmare. Chase stands with a grumpy, assessing, and weirdly… sexy look on his face, surveying the earth with the seriousness of a general planning a military campaign.
"Alright, Whitman. Piggyback time."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He turns his back to me and taps his shoulders. "Hop on."
"I'm not—"
"You weigh nothing, and I carry rescue gear that weighs more than you. Now hop on before I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of very expensive potatoes."
I laugh and shake my head. Then I climb onto his back, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist.
He adjusts his grip with an indulgent groan that does things to my insides.
"Comfortable up there?"
"Surprisingly yes."
"Good. Hold tight."
He navigates the slick rocks with the confidence of someone who's done this in worse conditions, probably while hauling actual injured hikers. His hands are warm on my thighs, and I rest my cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in.
This is what safety feels like.
Not the perfection of my Chicago life, but this. Being carried through the dark by someone who'd never let me fall.
Then we move past a thick set of forest pines, and a wall of sound hits me.
A low, hypnotic roar that grows louder with every step, vibrating through the air like white-noise therapy for the soul. Then the trees part, and I gasp.
"Silver Falls," I whisper, my breath heating Chase's ear.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Water spills in silky ribbons over granite cliffs, catching the first hints of dawn in a display that looks Photoshopped. Mist curls around the edges, clinging to ferns and wildflowers and turning the whole scene into something out of a fairy tale.
"Oh my God."
Chase sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. "Told you it was worth the death-defying hike."
"Chase… I… I…" Words don't come as I shake my head at the sight in front of my eyes. "I take back every complaint."
"Even the ones about appropriate wake-up times?"
"Especially those."
He spreads a faded blanket on a flat rock overlooking the pool, then wraps his flannel around my shoulders before I can even shiver. The fabric is warm from his body heat and smells like him. Like home.
Wait. Not home. Chicago is home.
Right?
Finally, finally, Chase pours coffee from the thermos into two tin cups, and the steam curls between us like a question mark. Then he pulls out a cinnamon roll the size of my face, splits it perfectly down the middle, and hands me half.
"Betty made them fresh this morning. Well, technically yesterday morning, but who cares with a view like this?"
I bite into sugar and butter and cinnamon perfection, and make a sound that I'd been saving for last night.
"This is highly unusual for me to enjoy," I say around a mouthful of heaven. "Sunrise is supposed to be something you sleep through."
Chase settles beside me. "Well, sweetheart… here, we treasure each morning like we mean it."
The sky slowly shifts from navy to sherbet-pink, painting the waterfall in shades of gold and rose. The spray catches the light, turning to diamonds in the air, and I realize I'm watching magic happen in real time.
But I'm leaving in six hours.
I snuggle in closer to Chase.
Because this—the thermos coffee, the flannel warmth, his solid presence beside me—none of it fits in my Chicago life.
My penthouse doesn't have room for cinnamon rolls and sunrise hikes. My calendar doesn't allow for spontaneous morning adventures, or men who take the lead of my life and show me the wonders of their world.
I shove the ache down and choose now. Choose warmth. Choose this.
Chase notices my barely-there shoe situation. One ballet flat is now held together by designer stitching, smeared with mud everywhere. He smiles and pulls a bandana from his pocket.
"MacGyver time."
"You're going to fix my shoe with a bandana?"
"I'm going to attempt to fix your shoe with a bandana."
He kneels in front of me, wrapping the fabric around the broken strap with the focused intensity of someone defusing a bomb. His fingers brush my ankle, and I bite back a shiver.
"There. That should hold until we get you proper boots."
"A true hero."
"Damn right."
I laugh into his shoulder, then we settle into quiet as the first hint of the sun crests the mountain, turning the waterfall spray to liquid gold.
We eat the cinnamon roll, drink all the coffee, then sit in companionable silence, watching the sun paint the world for a brand new day. Eventually, his warm arm wraps around me, pulling me closer, and I sink into him like I've been doing this forever.
Then I feel it.
Him.
Growing hard against my hip, a slow insistent pressure that makes my breath catch.
Houston, we have lift off! Finally!
"Chase—"
"Sorry. Can't help it. You're wearing my flannel and sitting on my lap watching the most beautiful sunrise. And I'm only human. And you're hot. So hot."
I laugh as I shift, deliberately pressing closer. "Don't apologize. I've been waiting for our little agreement to rear it's head again."
His hand tightens on my waist as I shift in closer. The fabric of his pants twitches beneath his growing arousal. "Piper—"
"I need—" My voice comes out desperate, needy. "I need one more touch before I leave. Please."