Chapter 4 Shelter from the Storm
Shelter from the Storm
The mountain air shifts suddenly, temperature dropping as the first gust of wind hits us. In Colorado's high country, storms materialize with frightening speed, turning blue skies to violent tempests in minutes.
"We need shelter." I scan the surrounding terrain, my professional instincts temporarily overriding our argument. "We'll never make it back to the trailhead before that hits."
Mac checks his GPS. "Nearest ranger station?"
"Too far." I grab my pack, shoving the map inside. "There's one of Jackson Hart's emergency shelters half a mile north. We can make it if we run."
Without waiting for his response, I whistle for Scout and bolt down the north trail.
Branches whip at my arms. Rocks skid beneath my boots. Behind me, I hear him curse—low and sharp—before his footsteps follow, fast and relentless, eating up the distance I’m trying to put between us.
The wind kicks harder, howling through the trees. Pines bow under its force, their needle-laced limbs clawing at the sky. Dust and debris swirl up around us, stinging my eyes, stealing my breath.
A low growl of thunder rolls over the ridgeline. Long. Ominous. Too close.
“Josephine—” His voice rips through the wind, but I don’t look back.
We crest the ridge just as the first raindrops hit—heavy, cold, and sudden. Then the sky opens.
Sheets of water hammer down, drenching us in seconds. The storm doesn’t build—it descends, fast and furious, like a living thing.
Lightning lights up the sky. Thunder cracks, sharp and violent.
Scout lets out a sharp bark, ears pinned as she runs ahead. Lightning flashes—too close, too bright—throwing the forest into stark black-and-white relief.
I stumble. Catch myself on a branch slick with rain.
Mac’s hand shoots out, grabs my arm—firm, grounding. Heat from his palm burns through the chill, even as the storm rages around us.
“Shelter. Now.” His words are clipped, commanding. No more arguing. No more distance. Just urgency.
I nod, breathless, soaked to the bone, the air crackling with electric tension.
Above us, the sky groans again—thunder rolling like the belly of something ancient and pissed off.
And behind us…
That storm isn’t finished.
It’s just getting started.
"There." I point to a small structure tucked against the rockface, almost invisible against the natural landscape.
We make the final sprint as hail begins to mix with the rain, stinging exposed skin. I fumble with the shelter's latch, fingers slippery with rain, until Mac reaches around me to help.
The door swings open, and we tumble inside, Scout shaking water everywhere as we secure the door against the howling wind.
Hart's emergency shelter is one room, maybe twelve by twelve feet. A small woodstove occupies one corner, a narrow bench along the opposite wall, and a small cot in the corner. Emergency supplies are stacked neatly on shelves.
The space feels even smaller with Mac's broad shoulders blocking most of the available light from the single window.
We stand dripping on the plank floor, suddenly aware of our proximity in the confined space. Water runs from Mac's dark hair down his face, catching in his eyelashes and trailing along his jaw. My clothes cling uncomfortably, soaked through in the brief dash.
The silence between us pulses with unfinished argument and something else—something electric and dangerous.
"Well." He pushes wet hair from his forehead. "That was exciting."
"Welcome to Colorado mountain weather." I move to the stove, desperate for something to do with my hands. "We should start a fire. Temperature drops fast during storms."
Mac moves to the supply shelf, finding matches and kindling while I arrange wood in the stove. We work silently, the tension between us thickening with each passing second. Scout settles on the floor, watching us with wary eyes.
The kindling catches, filling the small space with warm light and the comforting scent of pine smoke.
A shiver racks my spine, sudden and sharp, my damp clothes clinging cold against my skin.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to trap what little heat I have as steam begins to rise from my sleeves.
"You should change." Mac nods toward my pack. "Hypothermia's a risk even in summer at this elevation."
"I'm fine." My voice comes out sharper than intended, the residual anger from our argument still simmering beneath the surface.
“You’re shaking.” His voice cuts through the crackle of firewood, low and unyielding—the same commanding edge that sparked our argument on the trail. “This isn’t a suggestion, Mackenzie.”
“Don’t pull rank on me in my mountains.”
“This isn’t about rank.” He steps closer, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “It’s about basic survival. You of all people should know better.”
“Now, who’s questioning whose expertise?” The words come fast, sharp, but a violent shiver rips through me before I can hold it back, my arms hugging tighter around my damp clothes. Dammit.
“Fine.” His jaw tightens.
He steps back—but not far enough. His fingers go to the hem of his soaked t-shirt, dragging it up in one slow motion.
The fabric clings to every ridge of his chest before peeling free, water-dark and heavy.
He drops it to the floor with a wet slap, standing bare-chested in front of the fire like something carved from sun-drenched stone.
I can’t stop staring.
His chest is broad, thick with muscle, a dusting of dark hair catching the flicker of firelight.
Defined pecs taper into an obscene, impossible six-pack—each line sharp enough to cut.
And lower… a single drop of water tracks a lazy path down the deep groove of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
My mouth goes dry.
He catches me looking and—of course—smirks. A dark, knowing thing that sends a pulse of heat straight between my legs.
“Something interesting, Mackenzie?” His voice roughens, amusement curled beneath it.
I jerk my gaze away, scowling. “Just making sure you weren’t about to pass out from hypothermia.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound low and infuriating. Then he hooks his fingers under his beltline, pausing there. Not unbuckling. Not yet. Just watching me.
“You can look if you want,” he murmurs, tone all heat and steel. “But fair warning—if you don’t want me watching you change, now’s your last chance to turn around.”
The fire crackles between us, but it’s nothing compared to the burn crawling across my skin. Every breath feels too deep, too sharp. The shelter is suddenly too small. The air is too thick. And him, too much.
Too much confidence, too much heat, too much everything.
I don’t move.
And neither does he.
Yet.
I huff, spin on my heel, and face the wall with more force than necessary. The timber planks are rough beneath my palms, the scent of pine smoke curling into my hair.
Behind me, the metallic click of his belt slices through the hush. Fabric drags slowly over skin, a whisper of sound thick with intent. Wet gear lands with a soft, final thump on the floorboards. Each noise punches low, deliberate, unhurried, designed to torment.
The silence that follows is louder than anything. He’s not just changing. He’s performing. And he knows damn well I’m listening to every second of it.
“You gonna change,” he calls, voice maddeningly casual, “or stubbornly freeze out of spite?”
Teeth clenched, I dig into my pack and yank out a dry base layer, keeping my back to him. My hands tremble—not from cold anymore, but from the sheer effort of ignoring the heat rolling off his body like a goddamn furnace.
I strip off my wet shirt, the cold air biting at my skin.
My bra clings damply, and I peel it away with a sharp inhale.
Goosebumps rise instantly across my arms, my breasts, my spine.
I reach for the thermal top, tugging it over my head as quickly as I can—but not quickly enough to stop the thought from hitting.
He’s behind me. Half-naked. Dry. Watching.
Or not watching.
I have no idea which is worse.
Leggings next. They peel down slowly, wet fabric clinging like a second skin. I curse under my breath, kicking them off and stepping into warm, dry thermals with a muttered, “This is your fault,” though it sounds more like a prayer than an accusation.
I grab my thick socks and yank them on with shaking fingers, then zip up my fleece halfway, forcing myself to inhale. Breathe. Reset. Get your shit together.
“You can turn around now,” I mutter without looking.
“Thanks for the show,” he says behind me, the smirk audible.
I spin to glare at him—and immediately regret it.
He sits on the edge of the bench in nothing but dry pants. He’s shirtless. Smug. Sprawled like he owns the goddamn room.
His hair’s damp, curling slightly at the ends, his forearms braced on his thighs. Relaxed. Infuriatingly male.
Unfazed by the storm—or my scowl.
“You watched?”
“Could’ve faced the wall,” he says, not even pretending to apologize, “but then I’d have missed how hard you checked me out earlier. Fair’s fair, Mackenzie.”
My breath hitches. Heat flares across my cheeks.
“I wasn’t—”
He lifts a brow. Waits. Lets the silence do the work.
I cross my arms over my chest, every nerve in my body sparking. “I was not checking you out.”
“Sure,” he drawls. “You just happened to stare at my chest like it held the coordinates to buried treasure.”
I make a strangled sound and spin away from him again, practically vibrating with the effort not to launch something at his smug, insufferably beautiful face.
He chuckles behind me—low, deep, maddeningly amused.
“For the record,” he adds, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “you looked for a hell of a long time.”
I press my palm against the rough timber wall, willing myself not to turn back around. Not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered I am. The image is already burned behind my eyes—the drop of water sliding down his abs, the smirk that knew exactly what it was doing to me.