Chapter Eight
Chase
This has been the longest week of my life.
Time has crawled to a snail's pace since Piper walked through airport security wearing my flannel and those hiking boots that made her long legs even more delicious.
The week has dragged like a bad rope burn. I've filled every hour with movement and activity, anything to keep from checking my phone every thirty seconds like some lovesick teenager.
Monday, thankfully I had double shift at the station. I restocked medical supplies until Knox physically removed the inventory clipboard from my hands and told me to 'go home before you wear the fucking bandages.'
I woke up early on Tuesday, right before dawn to hike to Silver Falls again. As the sun rose, I stood exactly where Piper stumbled, where I caught her, where everything inside my head shifted.
Timber Tavern was Wednesday's distraction with the guys. After my shift at the station, Travis bought a round, Charlie made comments about 'that pretty nurse coming back,' and I pretended the whiskey was the reason I was so quiet.
We had a rescue call on Thursday. A lost hiker with a badly twisted ankle, but even that was a routine extraction. I worked the ropes while my brain replayed Piper's voice from our call that morning—exhausted, frustrated, telling me about some dinner her mother ambushed her with the night before.
Some guy named Maxwell was there.
But at least she sent me a photo of the dress she wore.
Mom's insisting I wear this tomorrow night. Thoughts?
My thoughts involved peeling that dress off her so slowly she'd forget her own name, let alone whatever fancy event required it. I excused myself from the station common room when she sent it, found the bathroom, and took care of the situation with my hand and some very vivid imagination.
Now… now it's Friday.
The week finally, finally ending.
I jog up the rescue station steps, diesel fumes from the trucks mixing with pine-sharp air. Shift change buzzes around me, night guard's boots scuffle on the gravel as they head home.
I move inside, wave to Martha at the front desk as my pulse hammers too fast for a normal end-of-week rotation.
Because in exactly eight hours, Piper's plane lands.
And I get to see her again.
I move through the morning like I'm on fast-forward. Inventory check flies by, ropes coil smooth and perfect, first aid kits get restocked with the efficiency of someone who wants time to hurry the fuck up.
Knox runs rope drills at one, right before lunch. The team gathers in the bay, and I'm already clipping in before he finishes explaining the sequence.
"Look out. Bit aggressive today, Morrison," Knox observes.
"Just efficient."
"Sure." Knox grins, adjusts his own harness. "Let's see if you can keep up today then."
The drill is simple enough. Rappel, swing, anchor reset, climb. We've done it a thousand times, but today it feels good. My body knows the movements, my muscles are firing in perfect rhythm while my brain counts down hours.
Five and a half until wheels down.
I drop the line, swing wide, catch the anchor point clean.
"Twelve seconds," Jamie Striker calls from below, a stopwatch in hand. "Not bad."
"Not great either," Beau adds, arms crossed, looking like he's carved from the same stone as the mountain. "Your swing was sloppy."
"My swing was efficient."
"Your swing looked like you were thinking about something else. Try again."
Fair.
Travis is next though, then Knox again. The rhythm settles in the practice area as ropes thump against the wall, carabiners click, and someone curses when their knot catches.
It's familiar. Comfortable. The kind of work that usually centers me.
Except today, everything has a Piper-shaped outline.
I love this. The competence, the team, the purpose. Being useful. Being good at something. But underneath it all runs this electric current of anticipation, the secret thrill that in a few hours, I get to go home and be wanted for who I am, not what I can do.
My phone buzzes in my pocket during the fourth round. I ignore it and try to focus on the rope, the anchor, the task at hand.
"Morrison, you're up!"
I clip in, drop, swing. Land it perfectly this time.
"Better," Beau grunts. Which from him is practically a standing ovation.
Martha sweeps through the bay at two-thirty with a tray of sandwiches. She sets them on the equipment table, then produces coffee mugs to go with the awesome spread.
"Don't you dare skip lunch," she announces to the room at large. "I didn't make these for decoration."
Knox grabs two sandwiches immediately. Travis takes one, inspects it like he's checking for explosives, then bites in with a satisfied grunt.
Martha slides a mug toward me. Dark roast blend from the professional grade machine inside, steam curling up to meet my nose as I take a long sip.
"This one's extra strong," she says, eyes twinkling. "So you don't fall over when she smiles at you this afternoon."
I swallow quickly and the scorch of heat burns my throat. "I don't know what you're—"
"Save it, honey."
Knox snorts into his sandwich. "She's right. You've been checking that phone all day. Or is your eye twitch permanent now?"
"It's a new medical condition called 'Friday.'"
"Fri-yay," Travis deadpans, reaching for his third sandwich. The man can eat. "You coming to Timber tonight?"
"Nope." My lips pop the word out with an unusual pride that the guys totally pick up on. "Can't."
"Can't?" Knox raises an eyebrow. "Or won't?"
"Won't."
"Because…?"
"Because I have plans."
"Plans that involve airport pickups?" Travis grins. "And flannel retrieval?"
The new guy—Garrett, ex-Army, beard like a lumberjack, permanent scowl—glances up from his coffee. "Uh huh. Women. They're all trouble. Who's 'she'?"
Knox and Travis answer in perfect stereo: "The reason we rush the Friday drills now apparently."
Garrett blinks and looks at me. "Seriously?"
"It's not that bad. Ignore them, assholes are just jealous."
"Can't ignore the truth, Morrison." Knox leans back against the equipment rack, grinning. "You've been useless all week."
"I have not—"
"You absolutely have."
Martha pats my shoulder, supporting me in a motherly way that I've never even felt from my own goddamn mother. "Don't listen to them, kid. I think it's sweet."
"It's pathetic," Travis offers helpfully.
"It's normal," Martha corrects, shooting Travis a look that could strip paint. "And you boys could learn a thing or two about showing up for someone you care about."
Shit. That's exactly what this is, isn't it? Showing up. Being there. Choosing someone and meaning it. Following through with promises, words and trust.
Even when the voice in my head has constantly haunted me this week with whispers of what if she doesn't come back?
What if Chicago pulls her back in like Germany stole my family? What if she realizes this was just a weekend escape, and I'm not worth the complications that drove my own flesh and blood away?
My phone buzzes, and this time, I know it's not my imagination.
I pull it out, heart hammering as Piper's name lights up the screen.
Piper: Wheels down 6:20. Tell your flannel to kindly remove itself. At the airport now, I'll be there soon. (kiss emoji)
I grin like an idiot.
"There it is," Knox announces. "The smile."
"Shut up."
"Get out of here, Morrison," Jamie mumbles, suddenly finding his voice. "Early minute is on me. Forget what these jerks are saying, it's nice to see a smile on your face. Enjoy your weekend, soldier."
Soldier. If only.
"Thanks, Boss." I grab my jacket, drain the last of Martha's coffee, and head for the door.
I get in my truck and check the clock.
I've got stuff to sort out before Piper arrives. Stuff to make sure this weekend is everything it needs to be. Stuff to make sure she falls in love with this place all over again.
Lucky for me, Piper wanted to let Brooke pick her up from the airport so she at least got to see her once this weekend.
She's right. I'm totally stealing her for myself. She's not moving out of my sight.
Or out of my bed.
Driving across town in a rush, I slam the door of my truck and run up the stairs at The Bear Paw café. As always, it smells like heaven when I push through the door.
Behind the counter, Betty's already holding up a brown paper bag before the bell stops jingling.
"Yeah, yeah. I got your order, dear." Betty smiles and winks. "Couples' pot pie. Extra crust hearts. Warm it in the oven, but don't burn it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Also…" She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that probably still carries across the street where Etta and Mabel are sitting on their favorite chair, knitting some new beanies.
"Be sure to kiss her before you feed her.
Priorities are important to us ladies. No matter how serious this may or may not be. "
My face heats. "Noted. Thanks, Betty."
"Shall I bag up two cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning?"
Naked breakfast in bed? Yes, please.
The cheesy grin on my face gives me away. "You know me too well."
"I know men like you too well, honey." She winks, adds the pastry box to my bag. "Now get out of here before I start crying into the whipped cream."
Back at the apartment, I move like a man possessed.
I lay out fresh sheets on the bed. The good ones I bought this week in a fit of optimism and pure distraction.
In the kitchen, I clean Piper's favorite mug that I refused to wash all week, positioning it by the kettle.
The shower is stocked with the fancy shampoo and body wash I may have researched online during my lunch breaks this week, and finally, I lay out a newly washed and folded flannel shirt across the foot of the bed. Her pajamas for the weekend.
I step back, survey my work with my hands on my hips.
Then, I laugh at myself.
Fuck. What the hell is happening to me?
I'm acting like she's moving in instead of just visiting for the weekend. With a heavy sigh, I sink down on the edge of the bed, flannel soft under my palm.
Weekends only. No strings. No feelings.
Those were the rules. The ones I agreed to. The ones I signed on a napkin like some kind of idiot who thought he could actually follow them.
But here I am, buying fancy soap and planning a naked breakfast in bed and folding flannel like it's some kind of sacred ritual.
Because deep down, maybe if I can make damn sure everything's perfect, she'll want to stay a little longer. Maybe if I give her enough reasons, she won't get on that plane Sunday night.
Maybe if I'm enough, she'll choose me.
I stand and shake it off. This isn't about my mother packing up my sister and leaving me behind. This isn't about proving I'm worth keeping around despite all my failures.
This is just... making the most of the two days I have with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen.
I grab a Sharpie and crouch by the top dresser drawer.
In neat block letters, I write: Weekend Occupancy Only.
It's a joke. A callback to our rules. A wish for something more permanent that I'm too chicken to say out loud.
But I leave it, anyway and add the finishing touches to my apartment.
A fresh toothbrush in the bathroom cup and a sticky note on the mirror: Welcome home, Piper.
I take a breath and stare out the window. The pot pie rests on a cooling rack, golden crust glistening. She'll be here any minute now. I crack the window and let the cool mountain air sweep through, just as a car door slams downstairs.
I look down and see Brooke's car. She's here!
I'm at the door before Brooke's engine even cuts out. Before the knock. Before anything.
The handle turns under my palm and there she is… Piper Whitman.
Her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, platinum hair wind-tossed and falling loose around her shoulders, those new hiking boots already laced up like she belongs here. Like she never left.
"Hi, Mountain Man."
Her voice is breathless, warm, everything I've been replaying in my head for five days straight.
"Christ." The word scrapes out rough, my smile pulling wide. "I forgot how damn beautiful you are, Chicago."
She steps inside, close enough that I catch her floral scent that makes my head spin all over again. "Don't call me that anymore."
Fuck. Yes.
I kiss her before the door even shuts. Joyful and hungry and desperate, backing us inside until we're hidden from the world. She laughs against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest as my heart damn near explodes with joy.
"Is that pot pie?" Piper mumbles against my mouth.
"Not now." I grip her hips, lift her just enough to make her gasp. "After."
Her designer jacket slides off, hits the floor with a soft thump. My hands bracket her thighs, fingers digging into denim, cock already hard and straining.
She grabs my shoulders, moans into my mouth and drags me closer, tongue swirling over mine with the kind of kisses that erase the wasted week we just shared.
She's here. She's really here.
Relief and want and pure lust collide until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Her nails scrape my scalp. My thumb finds bare skin where her shirt rides up. Every breath tastes like the first time again.
I break just long enough to press my forehead to hers, voice wrecked. "You're mine."
"All weekend long." She bites my lower lip and giggles. "Take me to the bedroom."