Chapter 3
Three
J ack
I wasn't ready for the mountain to try to kill me. Wasn't ready for him either.
The roar fades behind us as Jack Boone carries me away from certain death, his massive arms like steel bands beneath my thighs. I should be calculating my next move, planning my escape from this stranger with storm-cloud eyes.
Instead, I'm cataloging sensations: the rough rasp of his beard scraping against my temple, the intoxicating scent of pine and smoke embedded in his skin, the impossible heat pouring off his body despite the freezing cold.
"I can walk," I manage as he holds me tight against his chest, my voice too thin to be convincing.
His only response is a tightening of his grip, fingers digging into my soft flesh. A single word growled against my hair: "No."
He sets me on his four-wheeler, eyeing me up and down, then settling his gaze on my backpack.
“You’re either the density of lead or you have rocks in that fucking pack.”
I blink. “Uh, I actually do have rocks. I collect them. I name them too, the special ones. So, yeah, there are a few rocks in my backpack, if you must know.”
His nostrils flare. “You name your rocks?” The indents in his forehead deepen.
“ Only the special ones . What, you don’t name your—” I glance around, coming up with nothing, then blurt out, “Your favorite trees? Or, this thing?” I point toward the front of the little machine I’m sitting on.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “No, actually, I’ve never named anything.”
Thick fingers wiggle under the straps of my pack, relieving my shoulders from the weight and dropping it into a milk crate that’s bungee’d to the back of the machine, then climbs on behind me.
His tree-trunk thighs bracket mine completely, his chest a solid wall of muscle at my back.
"I don't usually get rescued by men who look like they could snap me in half," I say, aiming for light, landing somewhere near breathless.
"You've been rescued before?" His voice is deep enough to vibrate through my entire body, and instead of joking, the tone is very clearly angry.
I rethink my statement, answering with a quick shake of my head.
"Fucking good." His huge hand spans my waist, squeezing possessively. "Means I'm the first. I like being your first."
That makes me bite back a little gaspy-moan as he kicks at the side of the machine, turns the handle, then with a jerk and puff of exhaust, cold air rushes over my cheeks.
We ride through forest that seems endless, ancient pines stretching toward a sky threatening more rain. My sodden clothes chill me to the bone, but wherever his body touches mine, I burn like I'm being branded. His heat is overwhelming, suffocating, necessary.
I catch sight of something dangling from his keychain as he guides the four-wheeler—a tiny, worn Rubik's cube, incongruously colorful against his rugged exterior.
"You solve puzzles?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the engine.
His body stiffens against mine, the prod of his cock suddenly noticeable against my lower back. "Sometimes."
"I never could figure those out," I admit. "Too impatient."
"Patience isn't the point." His voice rumbles through my back, vibrating straight to my core. "It's about patterns. Systems. Breaking things down until they make sense."
I let his comment go as a cabin comes into view. Not the rustic shack I expected, but something substantial. Weathered logs stained dark with age. A wide porch wrapped around two sides. Smoke curling from a stone chimney like a beckoning finger.
Jack kills the engine, swinging his leg over the four-wheeler with fluid grace that belies his massive size. He studies me for a moment, those storm-cloud eyes devouring every inch of me.
"Ready?” The question is gruff, almost reluctant, and I get the feeling he doesn’t have company very often.
I nod, attempt to stand, and immediately regret it. My legs, numb from cold and the lingering shock of nearly drowning, buckle beneath me.
He catches me before I hit the ground, one thick arm sweeping behind my knees, the other around my back. In a single motion, I'm crushed against his chest again, engulfed by his size.
"Sorry," I whisper, mortified.
His jaw tightens, muscles flexing dangerously. "Don’t apologize. You should only apologize for things you did to deliberately hurt someone, then you make amends and move on."
The odd warmth and relief in his statement leaves me uncomfortable but silently swooning a little.
"My river didn’t apologize, and it tried to kill you," he says, voice dropping to a possessive growl. "But that’s just the river being the river, it wasn’t nothing personal. It dares try that again though, then it will be personal.”
" Your river?" I raise an eyebrow. "The water didn't mention it had an owner."
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. Almost.
"Everything on this mountain answers to me." His eyes lock with mine as he carries me up the steps, my body weightless in his arms. "Including you, now. Especially you."
"My father talked about you," I say as he shoulders open the door. "Never mentioned you lived like a some feral lumber baron in a log castle at the top of the world."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe approval at my attempt at humor. He shoulders open the door without setting me down, the oddness of his lingering grip making me want to wiggle free.
The cabin's interior swallows us in warmth that makes my frozen skin tingle painfully. Cathedral ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that dominates one wall. Bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound books showing worn gold leaf on the spines. Furniture that looks handcrafted—solid, masculine, built to last lifetimes.
Any color there is reminds me of flannel shirts. Deep blue, red, green, tan…it’s like Woodrich of LL Bean was in charge of the décor.
What catches me off guard is the display shelf along one wall—dozens of Rubik's cubes in various stages of completion. Not just the standard ones, but pyramids, dodecahedrons, and shapes I can't even name.
"You weren't kidding about the puzzles," I say, suddenly aware I'm dripping river water onto his floor.
He follows my gaze, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "Helps me think. Keeps my hands busy." His fingers flex against my thigh, digging in slightly. "When they'd rather be busy elsewhere."
"How fast can you solve one?"
"Standard 3x3? Forty-three seconds." He states it like a fact, not a boast, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Impressive."
"Not really. World record's a little over three seconds." He clears his throat, the little nerd out he was displaying swallowed again by the gruff mountain man. His shoulders straighten, voice dropping back to its gravel register. "Not that it fucking matters out here."
Near the hearth sits a half-finished wooden cradle, its curves sanded to impossible smoothness. The sight of it strikes me harder than the cold has.
"You have children?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes follow my gaze, then he growls. "Commission," he says shortly, finally setting me down. His hands linger at my waist, fingers pressing into my flesh like he's afraid I'll disappear. "Banker in Denver. Second baby."
I nod, swaying slightly on feet I can't quite feel. His hands instantly tighten, stabilizing me against his solid form.
"Shower's through there." He points down a hallway, his massive hand still spanning my waist completely. "Water takes a minute to heat. Towels in the cabinet." His gaze travels my body, no longer just assessing damage—now there's unmistakable hunger flaring in his eyes. "Clothes in the dresser in my room. Take what you need. It’s all flannel and denim and boxers, but pretty sure you’ll make them look way better than I could.”
"I have clothes in my backpack," I say, gesturing to the still open door where the four-wheeler is parked outside.
His eyes flick in that direction, then back to me. "Those are wet. You’ll wear my clothes, now go before I follow you in there and make sure you get warm and clean."
That makes me clench. But, he’s right, I’m still freezing, and the wet clothes are making my skin wrinkle.
The promise of hot water is too tempting. The promise of being surrounded by his scent is even more tempting.
"Thank you," I manage. "For the river. For this."
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Don't thank me yet, Delaney Hart. You don't know what saving you is going to cost."
The words should frighten me. Instead, they send a bolt of liquid heat straight between my legs that has nothing to do with my wet clothes.
The shower is blissfully hot, steam filling the small bathroom until I can barely see. I scrub river silt from my hair, inspect bruises blooming along my ribs, try not to think about the mountain man waiting beyond the door. Fail miserably.
His bathroom tells its own story—unscented soap, straight razor beside the sink which from the beard he’s sporting isn’t used often, a single toothbrush. No evidence of women. No softness. Just functionality and raw masculinity.
In his bedroom, I face the same stark simplicity. King bed with navy sheets pulled military-tight. Dresser with nothing atop it but a folded American flag in a triangular case. A single framed photo—him in fatigues with three other men in civilian clothes who share enough of his features to be brothers.
On the nightstand sits another Rubik's cube, all the colors perfectly aligned in stripes.
I borrow a flannel shirt that hangs to my thighs and a pair of blue boxers I have to roll at the waist multiple times. When I emerge, he's waiting with a mug of something steaming, his eyes darkening as they rake over my body, lingering where his shirt barely covers my thighs.
"Coffee. Bourbon's in it. That’s all I have besides water and beer." He presses it into my hands, his fingers brushing mine, sending sparks up my arm. "Drink it all, baby girl. Need to warm you from the inside out."
I do, if only to see the approval in his eyes as the words baby girl swirl around and around in my head. The liquor burns a path to my stomach, igniting embers of warmth that spread outward.
"So you're some kind of speed-cubing champion hiding out in the woods?" I ask, surprised to find a smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
His expression flickers, that hint of color returning to his face. He reaches for a cube on the side table, his large fingers deftly turning the sections with surprising grace. Three moves in, he fumbles, the cube slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. It bounces, coming to rest between us.
We both stare at it. Then at each other.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Not at him—at the absurdity of the moment. Near-death experience, mountain man rescuer with the body of a god and the puzzle obsession of a math prodigy, and here we are, staring at a dropped toy.
He clears his throat, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Then, with deliberate slowness, he bends to retrieve it, movements precise as he sets it back on the table. When he straightens, all traces of embarrassment are gone, replaced by that intense, consuming focus.
"My father said you'd help me." I hold the warm mug between my palms. "He didn't mention you'd save my life first."
His eyes darken to midnight. Something primitive moves behind them, like storm clouds gathering before a violent downpour.
"Hart knew what he was doing when he sent you to me." His voice drops lower, a rumbling growl that vibrates through my entire body. "He just didn't know all of it."
"All of what?"
He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness and my thighs clench together. "Rest. We'll talk after."
He strides to the door, shoulders bunched with tension, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. He pauses with his hand on the knob.
"You're safe here." The words seem torn from him, raw and honest. He turns on his boot, mumbling words I barely catch as he goes: "From everything but me."
Then door closes firmly behind him, leaving me alone with whiskey warmth in my belly and a dangerous certainty forming in my mind.
Jack Boone is right. My father knew exactly what he was doing when he sent me here.
I’m just not sure he knew what was going to happen once I got here.