Chapter 2 Sloane
SLOANE
He pulls his truck right up to the front, the headlights cutting through the swirling snow before he kills the engine.
He’s out of his cab in seconds, moving with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of emergency response training.
Before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, he is at my door, pulling it open.
“Let me help you with your bags,” he says, already reaching past me into the back seat.
Oh. What a gentleman. I’m not used to being treated so nicely.
What does that say about your choice of men, Sloane?
A lot, really. The scent of him hits me.
Wood smoke and winter air and something darker, more masculine.
My brain short-circuits for the second time in an hour.
Get it together, Sloane. He is just being helpful.
This is his job. You are a person in distress, and he is rescuing you.
That is literally what rescue guys do. I need to stop watching Christmas movies, they are putting the wrong idea into my head, this is nothing like one of them.
He helps me carry my bags inside, his hand briefly touching my lower back to guide me through the door as I navigate the snow-covered steps in my completely inadequate boots.
It was barely a touch, professional and polite, the kind of touch you would give anyone you were helping.
But I felt it everywhere. A spark of heat travels up my spine and settles low in my belly.
A flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with the cold or the fear, or the adrenaline crash I was definitely experiencing.
You are being ridiculous, Sloane. This poor man is trying to do his civic duty, and all you keep doing is ogling him and dreaming up out-of-this-world romantic scenarios about him. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Ignoring my inner thoughts, I concentrate on my surroundings.
The interior of the station is exactly what you would expect from a remote government building that sees minimal use.
One large room serving as office, living room, and kitchen all in one.
A worn couch that has seen better days is pushed against one wall, its plaid fabric is faded and threadbare in spots.
A wooden table with three mismatched chairs that look like they have been salvaged from different decades.
A small kitchenette in the corner with a mini fridge, a hot plate, and a coffee maker that looks older than me.
And in the corner, a stone fireplace with actual flames crackling and popping, throwing dancing shadows across the knotty pine walls.
It smells like wood smoke and stale coffee and something else, something clean and masculine that I’m pretty sure is the man himself.
“It’s not much,” he says, setting my bags down near the couch. There is something almost apologetic in his tone, as if he’s embarrassed by the humble accommodations. “But it’s warm and dry.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you. I’m just going to stay cozied up in bed watching movies anyway.” And I mean it. After hours in the car, thirty minutes of genuine terror on that mountain road, and the very real possibility that I was going to die alone in a ditch, this place looks like the Ritz-Carlton.
He shrugs off his heavy jacket, hanging it on a hook by the door, and oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
This is not fair. This is not fair at all.
Underneath, he wears a fitted thermal shirt in dark blue that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he is built like someone who regularly carries people out of burning buildings for a living.
Broad shoulders that could probably support the weight of the world.
Muscular arms that stretch the fabric in ways that should be illegal.
A chest that looks solid and strong, perfect for pressing your face against while he wraps those arms around you and makes you feel safe.
Not that I was thinking about that. I was absolutely not thinking about that.
I force my eyes away, suddenly finding the kitchenette fascinating.
Look at that ancient coffee maker. And that mini fridge.
So interesting. Much more interesting than the hot guy currently standing five feet away from me.
“There’s food in the cabinets,” he says, completely unaware of my internal crisis.
Or maybe he was aware and was just politely ignoring it.
“Non-perishables mostly. Canned soup, crackers, instant coffee.” That’s okay, I have a liquor store of wine in my car and a deli’s worth of cheese.
“Not gourmet, but it will keep us fed for a few days. Water in the fridge. The generator should last us through the storm if we’re not wasteful with the power. And I have a charger for your phone.”
A charger. Oh, thank God. My connection to the outside world can be restored. I will not be completely cut off. Riley can stop imagining my frozen corpse being discovered by hikers in the spring. Wait, did he say us?
“Us?” The word escapes before I can stop it. Before I can process what he just said.
He turns to look at me, and I swear amusement dances in those hazel eyes. “Well, yeah. I am stuck here too. Someone has got to make sure you do not decide to hike up to your cabin in the middle of a blizzard.”
“I’m not that stubborn.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a lie.
I am absolutely that stubborn. It’s one of my defining character traits, according to literally everyone who knows me.
Riley says it’s both my best and worst quality.
My mother says it will be the death of me.
Chett said it was exhausting. His expression says he doesn’t believe me for a second.
The slight quirk of his eyebrow, the tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Yeah, he has me pegged already. Smart man.
“Right,” I say, looking around the small space again.
Really looking at it this time, letting the reality sink in. “So, we are roommates?”
“Emergency roommates,” he says.
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now I guess.” He grins.
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, and the reality of the situation settles over me like a weighted blanket.
I’m going to be stuck in a small cabin with a stranger, a ridiculously attractive stranger who smells good, has kind eyes, and a voice that does things to my insides, for at least three days.
Maybe longer, depending on how this storm plays out.
This will either be the best or worst decision I have ever made.
And given my track record lately, given the spectacular implosion of my engagement, my career, and basically my entire life, I was not putting money on best.
“I should probably know more about you, if we’re going to be emergency roommates,” I ask, shrugging off my wet jacket and hanging it next to his on the hook by the door.
“Fair enough.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over that chest in a way that makes his biceps flex.
I try very hard not to stare at those arms, but fail spectacularly.
“Jax Reid. Thirty-two. Firefighter. Volunteer Mountain Search and Rescue with the county for seven years. I like long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and saving people from their own bad decisions.”
Despite everything, despite the stress, fear, and complete upheaval of my entire existence, I laugh. Actually laugh. “Wow. You really went there with the dating profile clichés.”
“Made you smile though.” He smirks, and that smirk should come with a warning label. Caution: May cause heart palpitations, poor decision-making, and temporary loss of common sense.
He’s right. I’m smiling for the first time in days. Since I walked in on Chett with his assistant bent over our kitchen counter. That mental image is going to haunt me forever.
“Your turn,” he says, those hazel eyes steady on mine. Curious but not pushy. Patient.
“Sloane Winters. Twenty-nine. Marketing consultant.” I pause, debating how much to share, then decide to just go for it. “Currently on a self-imposed exile from real life.”
“Exile, huh?” He raises a brow at me, genuine curiosity replacing the playful amusement. “That’s a strong word.”
“Long story.” One I was not ready to tell.
It involves tears and betrayal and realizing that the man I had planned to marry was a lying, cheating asshole who had been screwing his assistant for six months while picking out wedding invitations with me.
I was not ready to spill my guts to a stranger, no matter how kind his eyes.
No matter how safe he makes me feel with just his presence, his calm demeanor, and the way he looks at me like I’m a person worth knowing instead of a problem to be solved.
“We’ve got three days.” His voice is gentle. Not pushing, just offering. “Might be more if this storm does what the weather service is predicting.”
Shit.
Three days with this gorgeous man was going to be hard enough, but more. “Maybe later,” I say softly, hating how defeated my voice sounds. Fucking, Chett.
“Fair enough.” He pushes off the counter, and I try not to notice the way his shirt pulls across his chest and abs. Try and fail. “I should check the generator, make sure we are set for the night. There is a bedroom in the back, you should take it. I will crash out here on the couch.”
“I can’t take your bed.”
“There’s only one, and it is not my bed. It is the station’s bed. And you are a guest.” He grabs his jacket from the hook again. “Besides, I’ve slept in worse places. Trust me. That couch is practically a luxury suite compared to some of the places I have caught sleep on shift.”
Before I can argue further and insist that I will be fine on the couch and he should take the bed because he was the one doing me a favor, he is out the door, letting in a blast of frigid air before it slams shut behind him.
Leaving me alone in the warm station with my thoughts, my racing heart, and the realization that I’m in so much trouble.
I sink onto the worn couch, the springs creaking under my weight, and let out a long breath that feels like it has been trapped in my chest for hours. Days. Weeks.
What have I gotten myself into? I had come to the mountains to escape relationships.
To heal from the spectacular failure of my engagement to Chett.
To piece myself back together in solitude before I had to face my family during the holidays and explain why the wedding was off and why I was suddenly single, unemployed, and living with my best friend.
I was supposed to be having an Eat, Pray, Love moment.
Well, minus the praying and loving. There was going to be a lot more wine and self-pity involved in my journey.
Maybe some dramatic crying, even. Instead, I’m snowed in with a man who looks like he has walked straight out of a firefighter calendar.
The kind with perfectly sculpted abs underneath his uniform, smoldering eyes, and that rugged, capable energy that makes you want to do deeply irresponsible things.
A man who has a smile that makes my stomach flip in ways it should not.
A man who makes me feel things I have sworn off feeling.
I spot the white phone charger plugged into the wall near the desk and practically lunge for it.
My hands shake slightly as I plug in my phone, my lifeline, and watch the screen light up with that beautiful charging symbol.
Relief floods through me. I’m truly not stranded now.
I have a connection to the outside world.
Proof that civilization still exists beyond this small cabin and the man who smells like wood smoke and makes my pulse race.
My phone buzzes almost immediately. A miracle of modern technology. One bar of service, but one bar is enough. A flood of texts from Riley come through, each one more frantic than the last.
RILEY: Did you make it???
SLOANE: Sort of. Snowed in at a ranger station. Long story.
RILEY: Are you safe?
SLOANE: Yes. With a Search and Rescue guy. Also, a long story.
RILEY: Is he cute?
I glance toward the door where Jax disappeared. Cute was not the word. Devastating. Dangerous. Built like a Greek God. Those were more accurate.
SLOANE: Not relevant.
RILEY: That is a yes. Send pics. You know, proof of life and stuff.
RILEY: Sloane, this is literally a plot from one of your Christmas movies.
SLOANE: Not helping. This is real life not a Christmas movie.
RILEY: The universe has sent you the perfect rebound.
SLOANE: I am not sleeping with him.
RILEY: Why not?
SLOANE: He is a stranger.
RILEY: He is a knight in shining armor.
My friend is insane. I love her, but she is out of her mind.
RILEY: He is there to serve and protect … your vagina.
SLOANE: Riley!!!!
RILEY: Oh, come on, that was a good one.
SLOANE: I am here to find myself again after Chett.
RILEY: And you can do that in bed with the hot stranger.
SLOANE: Goodbye Riley.
RILEY: Use protection.
I shove my phone away, my face burning hot enough to melt the snow outside. This is not a Christmas movie. This is a weather emergency. A temporary situation. Nothing more. Except my traitorous body does not seem to have gotten that memo.
The door opens, bringing with it a gust of freezing air, snow, and Jax stomping his boots on the mat. “Generator is good. We should be all set.” He pulls off his jacket again, and I deliberately look anywhere else. “The fire is going strong. Should keep us warm through the night.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He moves to the kitchenette, pulling out a pot and a few cans from the cabinet. “Hungry? I can heat up some soup. It’s not fancy, but it is hot.”
“Not really.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly. “Guess I am.” My cheeks turn bright red. Thanks, body.
Jax smiles, and my stupid stomach, the one that betrayed me, does a flip.
“I’ve got like wine and cheese in the car, too,” I tell him.
“Sounds like you were planning a good night, then.” He chuckles as he clatters around the kitchen.
“I was …”
“Sorry to have spoiled it.” He gives me a small smile.
Damn fricken smile. My stomach flutters again. I’m in so much trouble. This is going to be a very long three days.
“You haven’t spoiled anything,” I reassure him.