Holiday Rescue (A Reid Brothers Christmas #1)

Chapter 1 Sloane

SLOANE

The maps stopped working twenty minutes ago, when my cell service died just as snow started falling like someone had flipped the switch for winter blizzard on the weather machine.

“This is fine,” I mutter to my empty car, watching the windshield wipers struggle against the wintry onslaught. “Everything is fine.” I try to push down the panic that is bubbling to the surface.

Everything was decidedly not fine.

I’d left Denver six hours ago with a broken heart, a bruised ego, and enough emotional baggage to fill the massive SUV I’d rented specifically for this escape.

The plan had been simple … hole up in a remote cabin for two weeks, avoid all human contact, and piece myself back together before the holidays forced me to pretend everything was okay.

But the universe, apparently, had other plans.

The snow was coming down so thick that I could barely see the road.

The temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the last hour, according to the dashboard display that seemed to mock me with each passing minute.

And I was pretty sure I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere back near that sketchy gas station with the taxidermized bear.

The one where the attendant gave me a look that said, ‘City girl, you are making a mistake’ before selling me overpriced beef jerky and terrible coffee.

I should have listened to that look. I should have turned around right then.

But no. Sloane Winters did not turn around.

Sloane Winters pushed forward even when every sign pointed to disaster.

It was basically my life motto at this point.

My hands ached from gripping the steering wheel, and my shoulders were hunched up near my ears, tension radiating down my spine.

And the three cups of gas station coffee I had chugged were making their presence known in increasingly uncomfortable ways.

Perfect. Just perfect. Because nothing said independent woman on a journey of self-discovery like potentially wetting yourself in a blizzard.

My phone buzzes, one precious bar of service flickering to life like a dying star. I grab it like a lifeline. Three missed calls from my sister, Maggie. Two from my mom, and a string of increasingly frantic texts from my best friend, Riley.

RILEY: Please tell me you made it to the cabin

RILEY: Sloane???

RILEY: The weather report looks INSANE

RILEY: If you don’t text me back, I’m calling the National Guard

I text back quickly. I don’t need the National Guard on my tail unless they are hot.

Sloane: Almost there. Service is spotty. I’m fine.

The service gods grant me exactly enough time to hit send before my phone gives up entirely, the screen going dark no matter how many times I jab at it.

Almost there was generous. Generous is putting it mildly.

I have no idea where there is anymore. The cabin rental confirmation email was screenshot on my now-dead phone.

And I’ve lost my navigation system too. I was relying on hope and the vague memory of the map I had looked at exactly once before leaving.

Fuck my life.

That seemed to be the theme lately. My fiancé Chett cheating on me with his assistant. Quitting my soul-crushing marketing job in a fit of rage. Driving into a mountain blizzard with no real plan.

This is where I’m at now.

The road, if you could even call it that anymore, curves sharply ahead.

I slow to a crawl, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have gone white.

The SUV fishtails slightly, and my heart jumps into my throat.

Okay. Perhaps this actually is a terrible idea.

Maybe Riley was right. Maybe I should have stayed in Denver and dealt with my problems like a normal person instead of running away to the mountains like some kind of millennial having a breakdown.

That’s when I see the lights.

Red and blue, cutting through the white like a beacon.

Like a sign from the universe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely screwed.

A vehicle is parked on the side of the road, emergency lights flashing like a lighthouse in a storm.

As I get closer, inching forward at approximately two miles per hour, I can make out the words painted on the side.

Mountain Search and Rescue

Relief floods through me so intensely my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I will not cry, I tell myself firmly. I’m no damsel in distress.

I pull up behind the truck and put my car in park, trying to calm my racing heart.

I’m fine. I am safe. Someone official is here, which means everything is going to be okay.

A knock on my window makes me jump so hard I hit my head on the roof.

“Sorry!” comes a muffled male voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I turn to see a man standing in the snow beside my car, bundled in a heavy jacket with reflective strips that catch the emergency lights. He gestures for me to roll down my window. I comply and immediately regret it as freezing air and snow blast into my warm cocoon, stealing my breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning down to meet my eyes.

And that’s when my brain short-circuits.

Because the man standing in a blizzard, looking at me with genuine concern, is unfairly, unreasonably attractive.

Even with snow coating his dark hair and a thick jacket hiding most of his body, there is no missing the strong jaw, the striking hazel eyes that seem to shift between green and gold, or the way his presence seems to command attention without even trying.

“I …” My voice comes out as a squeak. Great. Very smooth, Sloane. I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Just lost.”

“Where are you headed?” his deep, velvety voice asks, and I feel the timbre of it somewhere low in my belly. I try to hide the shiver his voice gives me. Or maybe it’s from the cold blasting through my car. Probably the cold. Definitely the cold.

“Uh …” I scramble for the rental information, which is, of course, still on my dead phone. Shit. “Pine Ridge Cabins? I think is the name of it. My phone died, and it was like a last-minute trip, and um, I …” I’m rambling.

Stop talking, Sloane. Just stop.

His eyebrows rise slightly, but not in judgment. More like curiosity. “You’re staying at the Whitaker property?”

“If that’s what it’s called, then yes.” I mentally kick myself for sounding so uncertain. So unprepared. So much like someone who has made a series of spectacularly bad decisions.

“You are about two miles from the turn-off.” He glances up at the sky, and I follow his gaze to see snow falling even harder than before.

When he looks back at me, his expression has shifted to something more serious.

Concerned. “But I am not sure you should keep going. This storm is getting worse.”

Two miles. I can do two miles. I have four-wheel drive, and determination and stubbornness in spades. “I will be fine. I have four-wheel drive,” I reassure him like the mountain princess I am. Or at least, like the mountain princess I’m pretending to be.

“Four-wheel drive does not help when you can’t see three feet in front of you.” He’s using that particular tone men use when they think they know better. Though to be fair, in this situation, he absolutely does know better. “And the road gets worse from here. Steep grade, no guardrails.”

Ekkk. My stomach drops, but I refuse to show it. “I appreciate the concern, but I have driven in snow before.” Like I said, mountain princess. Total lie. I had driven in Denver snow. City snow. Plowed roads and traffic lights kind of snow. Not whatever fresh hell this is.

“In Colorado backcountry during a blizzard?”

Screw his sexy face and that tone. “No, but …”

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick. I am trying to keep you alive.

” He runs a hand through his snow-covered hair, and I try very hard not to notice the way his jacket pulls across his shoulders.

“I’m doing emergency checks on properties in the area because we are about to get hit hard.

Like, do not leave your house for three days hard. ”

My stomach sinks. “Three days?” I mentally take stock of what I brought with me in the back of the car. Granola bars. Wine. More wine. Cheese. Not exactly survival rations.

“At least. Maybe longer.” His eyes, those stupidly beautiful hazel green eyes, are kind but firm. “Look, I cannot force you to turn around, but I can tell you that if you go up that mountain and get stuck, we will not be able to get to you for a while.”

The image of my car sliding off the mountain flashes through my mind.

Of my body being found weeks later, frozen solid, clutching an empty wine bottle.

Of my mother at my funeral, saying, ‘I told you so’ to my corpse.

I look at the swirling snow, at the rapidly disappearing road, at my inadequate city-girl winter coat on the passenger seat with its cute faux fur trim that will do absolutely nothing against this kind of cold.

Then I look back at him, with his capable hands and his I-save-people-for-a-living energy, and his face that should probably come with a warning label.

“Is there no way at all I can get to Pine Ridge Cabins? I’m staying in number seven.”

He gives me an ‘are you serious, lady’ look. Just had to check. Because I used some of my meagre savings to book into the cabins, and they were expensive. I don’t have that kind of money to waste right now. He must see the internal conversation I am having with myself and responds.

“I’ll let Mr. Whitaker know that I have stopped you from going further up the mountain. He will understand it’s an emergency, and I’m sure he can sort something out for you.”

Okay. I nod. That is good. I’m sure he will understand. Hopefully.

“What do you suggest I do now? Should I head back down the mountain?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. Hating how defeated I feel.

He shakes his head. “Not in that car, I don’t want to have to drive back down the mountain to rescue you from sliding into an embankment.”

I’m slightly offended by that statement. I’m a good driver. No, I’m a great driver, just crap at reading the weather.

“For the safety of all involved, I recommend you stay here and wait it out.”

“Stay here? Like pitch a tent in the wilderness and become a snow cone?”

He gives me a look that says he doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “There’s a ranger station about a mile back with a generator and heat. You can wait out the worst of it there.”

“For three days?” What about the weeks I had planned to watch Christmas movies while crying into my glass of wine while stuffing my face with cheese?

“Better than freezing to death in your car.” He says it matter-of-factly, like death in a ditch is a real possibility we are actively avoiding.

The man has a point. “Okay,” I say, the word tasting like defeat and relief all tangled together. “Lead the way.”

He gives me a quick nod, something like approval flashing across his face, and jogs back to his truck, snow kicking up around his boots.

I watch him go, trying very hard not to notice how good he looks even in bulky winter gear.

Trying not to notice the confident way he moves, like he knows exactly what he is doing and where he’s going.

Ignoring the way my heart rate has not quite returned to normal.

Checking out hot men is not why you are here, I remind myself firmly.

You are here to avoid men, remember? To heal.

To be independent and strong, and definitely not get distracted by hot rescuers who save damsels in distress on a daily basis.

The pep talk lasts approximately thirty seconds before I am following his taillights through the storm, my treacherous brain already wondering what the man looks like under all those layers.

What his hands would feel like on my skin.

Whether he is single. What his story is.

Stop it, I tell my brain. Just stop. But my brain, much like the rest of me lately, is not particularly good at following directions.

This is going to be a long three days. Possibly the longest three days of my life.

As I follow those red taillights through the storm, something in my chest that has been tight and anxious for weeks starts to loosen just slightly.

Maybe running away to the mountains has not been my worst idea after all.

Maybe, just maybe, the universe knows what it is doing.

Or maybe I’m just desperate enough to believe that getting snowed in with a hot firefighter is some kind of cosmic gift instead of another disaster waiting to happen.

Time will tell.