Reunited with the Hometown Hero (Angel’s Peak #9)

Chapter 1

Homecoming

The windshield wipers struggle against the downpour as I navigate the winding mountain road toward Angel's Peak.

Each rhythmic swipe reveals another slice of the familiar landscape—pine trees standing sentinel along the roadside, granite cliffs rising in the distance, and below, the valley where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.

Ten years. A decade since I last saw this view.

My rental car wheezes as it climbs the steep grade, the engine protesting as thunder cracks overhead. The storm mirrors the turbulence in my chest—a chaotic swirl of nostalgia, anxiety, and something else I can't quite name.

Or refuse to.

"Just a few days," I remind myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Get the story. Write the article. Go home."

Home.

The word catches in my throat. Chicago is home now—busy streets, crowded subway cars, the constant hum of a city that never truly sleeps. Not this quiet mountain town where everyone knows your name, your business, and probably your secrets too.

My editor's words echo in my mind: "Small towns are hot right now, Riley. Tourist destinations reinventing themselves post-pandemic. Angel's Peak is perfect—quaint, scenic, and you've got the local connection. This piece could clinch your promotion to senior features editor."

The promotion. The corner office. The validation that leaving was the right choice.

The rental car shudders, then coughs. A warning light flashes on the dashboard.

"No, no, no..." I tap the gauge, as if that might help. The engine sputters once, twice, then dies completely.

Perfect.

I coast to the shoulder, the tires crunching on wet gravel. The rain intensifies, hammering the roof like impatient fingers. I check my phone—no service. Angel's Peak might have reinvented itself, but apparently, cell coverage still isn't its strong suit.

Cursing under my breath, I grab my raincoat from the passenger seat and step out into the deluge. Frigid raindrops immediately assault my face, and the mountain wind cuts through my city-appropriate layers. I hold my phone high, turning in a slow circle, searching for even a single bar of service.

Headlights appear in the distance, cutting through the gray curtain of rain. The vehicle slows as it approaches, and I squint against the glare, making out the outline of an SUV with official markings.

It pulls alongside my stranded rental, and the driver's window descends to reveal a face I'd know anywhere. A face I secretly hoped to avoid until I had my bearings.

Noah Morgan.

My high school sweetheart.

My first love.

The boy I left behind.

Except there's no trace of boy left.

"Car trouble?" The voice is deeper now—rougher, darker. Gravel and honey, all male, and it scrapes down my spine like a caress I didn't ask for but desperately want more of.

My breath punches out of my lungs.

The years didn't just treat him kindly—they worshipped him.

Sculpted him.

Turned teenage charm into lethal masculinity.

His jaw is sharper now, shadowed in a perfect dusting of stubble I want to feel scraping against my thighs.

That wide, solid chest strains against a shouldn't-be-legal Fire Chief's uniform, sleeves shoved up to reveal strong forearms dusted with golden hair and corded with muscle.

And those hands.

God, those hands.

The same ones that used to hold me like I was breakable now look capable of doing filthy, delicious things that make my knees weaken, and my thighs clench.

But it's his eyes that finish me—icy blue, glacier bright, and locked on me like he already knows I've been picturing him naked in the half-second since he opened his mouth.

I swallow hard.

He smirks.

And just like that, I'm seventeen again and soaking wet for the boy I left behind—except now he's a man who looks like he could ruin me.

My tongue feels too big for my mouth. "Just died on me." I gesture helplessly toward the rental. "No cell service."

"Some things never change."

His voice slides over me—low, unreadable. Amusement? Bitterness? A cruel kind of nostalgia?

I can't tell.

He shifts the SUV into park and steps out, unfazed by the sheets of rain drenching everything in sight—including him.

And holy hell.

The soaked uniform clings like sin, molded to his wide shoulders, broad chest, and thick forearms, flexing as he shuts the door. Across his chest, bold white letters scream FIRE CHIEF, like the universe wants to add insult to injury.

Fire Chief.

Water drips from his dark hair as he strides toward me, slow and unhurried, like he's got nowhere else to be—like he's not just striding across a gravel road, but stomping straight through every defense I've rebuilt in the last ten years.

I, on the other hand, look like hell.

Soaked. Shivering. Mascara likely raccoon-ing around my eyes. My blouse? White. Thin. Absolutely see-through now. And I didn't wear a bra—because I hadn't exactly planned on going full wet t-shirt contest in front of the one man I still dream about.

And oh yeah. He notices.

His gaze drops. Just for a second.

But it lands.

Heat flashes through those glacier-blue eyes.

Jaw tightens.

Nostrils flare.

I cross my arms instinctively, like that's going to do anything to hide the fact that my nipples are visibly saluting the entire mountain.

He drags his gaze back up, slow as sin, and there's something unreadable in his eyes when they lock on mine again.

"Pop the hood," he says, all clipped command now, like he didn't just gut me with a single look.

I duck into the rental, cursing under my breath as I fumble for the lever with numb fingers, then force myself back out into the downpour.

He's already at the front, sleeves rolled, examining the engine like he was born to fix things. And not just things—me, once upon a time.

"How long's the check engine light been on?"

He doesn't look up. Doesn't need to.

His voice is pure authority—deep, rough, threaded with that impossible mix of command and calm that once made me forget my own name. It slides under my skin like a match striking wet tinder—sparking heat low in my belly, making my breath catch, my thighs press tighter.

"It just came on," I manage, my voice thinner, breathier than it should be.

But the sound of him—that voice—cracks something open in me.

I remember that tone from long ago, how it first taught me what it meant to want.

To ache.

To fall completely.

He was the first boy who ever looked at me like he could see straight through me—and the only one I ever let get that close.

He didn't coax. He didn't seduce. He drew me in, and I went willingly.

Back then, Noah Morgan didn't just kiss. He devoured. He explored every dark, uncharted corner of my curiosity and showed me how much I craved intensity—his intensity. His fingers tangled in my hair, his mouth murmuring sin against my skin while his body made good on every filthy promise.

And now, standing here soaked to the skin, no bra beneath my clingy shirt, heart pounding like it remembers what my mind's trying to forget—I know one thing with terrifying certainty.

That voice still undoes me.

I can't stop staring at the way his shirt pulls across his back, the water glistening on his skin, the sheer confidence radiating off him like heat in the storm.

And all I can think is…

Ten years.

Ten years, and he still makes me want to beg.

He makes a noncommittal sound, reaching into the tangle of metal and wires with those confident hands that once knew every inch of my body.

"Timing belt's shot. You're not going anywhere in this today."

"Great." I wrap my arms around myself, the wind cutting straight through my soaked clothes. My nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric—cold, sure, but also because of him. Because he hasn't even looked at me properly yet, and I'm ready to combust. "Just great."

Noah straightens, finally meeting my eyes. It hits like a slap and a kiss—recognition, memory, and something molten that pools low in my belly. My stomach drops like I've missed a step, and the breath leaves my lungs in one stuttering rush.

"I can give you a ride into town." He hesitates, then adds, “The whole town is eager to see you. Welcome back to Angel's Peak…Riley."

My heart slams into my ribs so hard it hurts. "You knew I was coming?”

His mouth tips into that infuriating smirk, one corner lifting just enough to flash that damn dimple. The one he used to press against my inner thigh right before—

"Small town, remember? Mabel's been airing out your room for three days."

I suppress a groan, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something I'll regret. How is he so calm? So... put together? Like this is any other day, any other woman. Not the girl who begged for him. Knelt for him.

Who broke for him.

"Word travels fast," I mutter, eyes narrowing.

"Never stopped." There's an edge in his voice now, deeper, darker. A flicker of something real. He jerks his chin toward his SUV. "Grab your stuff. I'll call Pete at the garage once we're back in service range."

I don't move.

Because I'm still trying to process how he's not wrecked like I am. How can he stand there, cool and casual, while I’m soaked to the skin and seconds away from climbing him like a damn tree?

My body remembers everything—his hands, his voice, the way he used to whisper filth into my ear and make me love it.

My brain?

It's just along for the ride now.

He turns like it's settled. Like I'm not breaking open at the seams while he's barely cracked.

And that pisses me off more than the storm, the broken car, and the fact that I'm not wearing a bra combined.

I retrieve my suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk, reluctantly accepting Noah's help with the larger bag. Our fingers brush during the handoff, and a jolt of awareness shoots up my arm. From his momentary stillness, I suspect he felt it, too.