Chapter 2
Jess
The next couple of days were a special kind of torture.
Sam put us through basic equipment drills—setting up tents, testing rain gear, learning to use our expensive equipment. Every time he came near me, my body went on high alert. Every time he corrected my technique, his hands would brush against mine and I'd lose my ability to think coherently.
This wasn't me. I didn't get flustered by attractive men.
I'd learned years ago to compartmentalize, to keep my professional life separate from any hint of personal attraction.
It was survival in a male-dominated field where showing weakness meant getting eaten alive.
But Sam was dismantling my carefully constructed walls with nothing more than proximity and competence.
"You're fighting the tent," he said, appearing beside me as I wrestled with my four-season mountaineering tent. "Stop trying to force it."
"I'm not forcing it," I said through gritted teeth, even though I absolutely was. "I'm following the instructions."
"Instructions are guidelines. The tent will tell you what it needs if you pay attention."
"The tent is an inanimate object. It can't tell me anything."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a grunt of frustration. Then his hands were on mine, guiding them to the tent poles.
And I forgot how to breathe.
He was behind me, his chest against my back, his arms bracketing mine as he showed me the proper technique.
Warmth radiated from his body, seeping through my expensive technical layers like they didn't exist. His hands—rough and scarred and so much larger than mine—covered my fingers, showing me how to feel for the connection points instead of forcing them.
"Relax," he said, his voice close to my ear. "You're thinking too hard."
Relax. Right. Relax while the most attractive man I'd ever seen was pressed against me, showing me how to put together a tent like we were doing the clay scene from the movie Ghost.
"I don't know how to not think," I admitted, and immediately regretted it. Too honest. Too vulnerable.
"I know," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice now. His hands guided mine through the motion until I understood the rhythm and I could feel the way the poles wanted to connect instead of forcing them into submission.
"There," he said. "See? You don't have to control everything. Sometimes you just have to trust the process."
Trust the process. When was the last time I'd trusted anything? When was the last time I'd let go of control long enough to just feel?
I couldn't remember.
"Try it again," Sam said, and stepped back.
My body immediately cataloged the absence—cold where he'd been warm, empty where he'd been solid, alone where he'd been present.
Stop it. This is insane.
But my hands were steadier now as I worked through the tent setup, following the pattern he'd shown me. When I finished, the tent stood solid and properly assembled, ready to withstand whatever the mountain threw at it.
"Good girl," Sam said.
I almost came from the way he said those words. Turning to face him, I saw he was watching me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're tougher than you look," he said. "Most people would have given up by now. Or at least complained more."
"I don't give up," I said automatically. It was true—stubbornness was probably my most defining characteristic. The trait that had gotten me through law school and into a top firm despite coming from nothing. The trait that was currently keeping me in a job that was slowly killing me.
"Good girl," he said again and I knew he knew exactly how his words affected me.
He moved on to help Amanda with her tent, leaving me standing there horny and unsatisfied.
WHEN DINNER TIME CAME around, I was exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
Sam had pushed us through a series of drills designed to test our gear under stress.
My rain jacket had failed spectacularly during his improvised waterfall test and my carefully researched hiking boots were giving me blisters that made walking painful.
But worse than the physical discomfort was the emotional toll of being constantly watched, constantly assessed, constantly found wanting.
Except... that wasn't quite right, was it?
Because every time Sam criticized my equipment choices, he also showed me how to do better. Every time he pointed out my mistakes, he also taught me the correct technique. He was hard on me—harder than on the others—but not cruel. Not dismissive.
Demanding. Like he expected more from me because he could see I was capable of more.
When was the last time someone had expected me to grow instead of just perform?
"Jess?"
I looked up from my protein bar dessert to find Sam standing over me, blocking out the sunset. He looked even larger. More intimidating. More...
Stop it.
"Yeah?"
"Walk with me. I want to show you something."
I stood, wincing as my new boots reminded me of every blister they'd created, and followed him away from the group. We walked maybe a hundred yards to a rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley below.
The view was stunning. Endless mountains rolling away in shades of green and gray and blue, crowned with the first hints of autumn color. The sky was unmarred by any sign of human civilization.
"This is why I do this," Sam said quietly. "Not the corporate retreats or the team-building exercises. This."
I looked at him instead of the view, studying his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The way his eyes softened as he looked at the mountains. The peace that seemed to settle over him out here in a way I'd never seen someone peaceful in a courtroom or conference room.
"Why do you do the corporate retreats if you hate them?" I asked.
His mouth quirked. "Who says I hate them?"
"The way you look at us like we're hopeless tourists playing dress-up in your world."
He turned to face me fully, and I was suddenly very aware that we were alone. Away from the group. Just the two of us on this rocky outcrop with nothing but wilderness and sky.
"Is that what you think?" he asked. "That I see you as hopeless?"
"Don't you?"
"No." He took a step closer, and I felt my pulse spike. "I think you've been drowning for a long time, and you're so good at treading water that nobody's noticed you're going under."
The words nearly knocked the breath out of me, and my vision swam with sudden tears. How did he see that when I'd spent years perfecting the illusion that I had everything under control?
"I'm fine," I said automatically. The lie I'd been telling myself and everyone else for months. Maybe years.
"Bullshit." Sam's voice was gentle but implacable. "You're not fine. You're running on fumes and willpower. Sooner or later that's going to run out."
"Why do you care?" The question came out sharper than I intended.
"Because I've been where you are," he said simply. "Different circumstances, same drowning feeling. And I know what it's like to keep going because you don't know how to stop. Because stopping feels like admitting defeat."
I stared at him, this mountain of a man who looked like nothing could touch him, and tried to imagine him drowning in anything.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I learned that running toward danger was easier than facing the things that scared me," he said. "That adrenaline was a good substitute for actually feeling anything. That I could control the risks I took even if I couldn't control anything else."
There was a story there. A deep one. But before I could ask, he continued.
"You do the same thing, don't you? Just with different tools. You control your schedule, your appearance, your performance. You manage every variable you can because it makes you feel like you're not drowning."
"Stop," I said, my voice cracking. "You don't know me."
"Don't I?" He took another step closer, and now we were almost touching.
"You're smart as hell. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you probably got into law school on scholarships because you came from nothing and needed to prove you deserved to be there.
You work twice as hard as everyone else because you're terrified someone's going to figure out you don’t belong. "
Tears were streaming down my face now, and I couldn't stop them. Couldn't stop the way my chest was heaving with suppressed sobs. Couldn't stop the feeling that this stranger had just reached inside me and pulled out every fear I'd been carrying alone.
“But that’s not true,” he said.
"How..." I couldn't finish the question.
"Because I see you," Sam said softly. "Really see you. Not the performance. Not the armor. You."
And then his hand came up to cup my face, his thumb wiping away tears with a gentleness that threatened to shatter me.
"You don't have to be strong alone. Not up here. Not with me."
I should have stepped back. Should have thanked him politely and returned to the professional distance that kept me safe.
I should have done anything except lean into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
But I was so tired. So tired of holding it together.
So tired of being perfect. So tired of pretending I wasn't barely surviving.
"I don't know how to not be alone."
"Then let me teach you," he said. "Same as the tent. Same as the fire-building. Let me show you what it feels like to trust someone else to carry the weight."
His hand was so warm against my face. So solid. Like if I let myself lean into him fully, he'd hold me up. Like he was strong enough to carry both of us.
"Why do you care?" I asked again, desperate to understand.
"Because the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine," he said. "I don't expect you to understand that. Hell, I don't understand it myself. But I saw you standing there in your expensive gear with your hostile walls up, and every instinct I have said: that one. She's the one worth keeping."
My brain frantically tried to process what he was saying while my body just wanted to surge forward and—
"Sam..."
"I know," he said. "I know it's crazy. I know you probably think I'm insane. But I'm done pretending I don't want you. Done pretending I don't see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
"We just met a few days ago," I said weakly.
"I know." His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I shivered. "Doesn't change anything."
He was right. It didn't change the fact that I wanted him with an intensity that surprised me or change the way my body responded to his proximity like he was a magnet. Certainty settled into my bones that this man was going to change my life.
"I don't do this," I said. "I'm not the kind of person who has these crazy feelings."
"I know," he said again. "You're the kind of person who thinks everything through. Who weighs the risks and makes strategic decisions. Who never lets herself feel anything she can't control."
Yes. Exactly yes.
"But right now, I'm asking you to stop thinking. Just for a minute. And tell me if you feel this too."
His other hand came up to frame my face, and suddenly I was cradled between his palms like something precious.
"I feel it," I whispered. "God help me, I feel it."
His smile was triumphant and tender at the same time. "Good girl."
And then he kissed me like he'd been thinking about it since the moment we met.
His lips were firm and demanding, and when I gasped in surprise, his tongue swept in to taste me.
I should have pushed him away because we were on a rocky outcrop in full view of anyone who cared to look.
But then his hand slid into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it, and I stopped thinking entirely.
I'd been kissed before. Had relationships, or what passed for relationships when you worked eighty hours a week.
But I'd never been kissed like this. This kiss was a claiming and a promise all at once.
I burrowed closer, even though we were already pressed together.
His whole body curved around mine like he was trying to shield me from the world.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
His eyes were darker now, pupils blown with want, and I knew mine probably looked the same.
"Okay?" he asked gruffly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Good." He pressed a kiss to my forehead, gentler this time. "Because we’re not done here. Not by a long shot.”
The certainty in his voice should have sent me running back to my safe, controlled life where people didn't feel like this after knowing each other for a few days. Instead, it felt like coming home.
"We should get back," I said, even though I didn't want to move.
"Probably," Sam agreed, but didn't let me go. "But first, I need you to know something."
"What?"
"The rest of this week is going to push you past your limits," he said seriously.
"It's going to strip away all your control mechanisms and force you to rely on instinct and trust. And I'm going to be there for all of it, pushing you harder than you've ever been pushed, because I can see what you're capable of. "
"That sounds terrifying," I admitted.
"It should be." His thumb traced my lower lip, and I shivered. "But I promise you I will never let you fall. I will never let you fail."
"And if I can't do it?" The old fear, the one that said I wasn't enough, would never be enough.
"You can." His certainty was absolute.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay," he echoed, and kissed me again. Softer this time, sweeter, like he was sealing a promise.
When we finally made our way back to the group, I wondered if everyone could see the way Sam's hand lingered on my lower back or the flush on my cheeks and the swollen state of my lips
I didn't care.
For the first time in years, I didn't care what anyone else thought. Didn't care about the whispers or the judgment or the professional consequences.