Blackridge
“The pass is closed.”
Jo stared at the woman behind the front desk.
“Closed as in inconvenient?”
The clerk hesitated.
Jo sighed. “Or closed as in I’m sleeping here whether I like it or not?”
“That one.”
S.
Jo looked through the tall windows behind reception. Snow was coming down hard now, thick enough to blur the lights outside and swallow most of the parking lot.
One night.
She had wanted one night away from Denver.
One night without scans, consults, phone calls, residents asking questions they could have answered themselves, or Sophie threatening to physically remove her from the hospital.
Apparently she had been too ambitious.
“My reservation is still good?”
“Yes. You got one of the last rooms.”
“Then I’m choosing to call this excellent planning.”
The clerk smiled, visibly relieved not to be blamed for the weather.
“Honestly, Dr Mercier, you arrived at exactly the right time.”
Jo wasn’t sure becoming trapped in the mountains counted as good timing, but the poor woman had probably spent the last hour explaining snow to angry tourists.
“Thank you.”
She took the key card.
Room 214.
Her phone buzzed inside her coat.
SOPHIE: Tell me you made it.
JO: I made it.
Three dots appeared immediately.
SOPHIE: To the lodge?
JO: Emotionally. Huge breakthrough.
SOPHIE: JO.
Jo smiled.
JO: Yes. Lodge. Road closed. I’m staying.
The reply took slightly longer.
SOPHIE: Good. Maya says if you open the patient portal she’ll change your password.
Jo frowned.
Maya absolutely could not do that.
Probably.
JO: She can’t.
SOPHIE: She says you don’t know that for sure.
Unfortunately, Maya had friends in hospital IT and a flexible relationship with professional boundaries when she believed Jo needed sleep.
Jo put her phone away before she could ask about the twins from that morning. The overnight attending had the case. Jo trusted her completely.
Leaving the hospital had still felt vaguely irresponsible.
That was why she was here.
Blackridge had become her escape years ago, almost by accident. Seven years earlier, after one particularly terrible week, she had driven west with no real plan beyond putting enough mountains between herself and Denver that the hospital could no longer be seen in the rearview mirror.
She had ended up in a tiny tea shop called Bell & Briar.
Agatha Bell, the elderly owner, had taken one look at her, put a pot of tea on the table, and—mercifully—asked no questions.
Jo had gone back the next month.
Then again.
Eventually Agatha had started criticizing her choice of tea, which Jo had decided was probably affection.
Now she came to Blackridge a few times a year when work had consumed enough of her personality that her friends began staging interventions.
Tonight she was supposed to eat something that hadn’t come from a vending machine and read something ridiculous involving either a glowing vampire or a brooding Alpha with serious boundary issues.
A completely normal evening.
She picked up her overnight bag.
Then she felt it.
Someone was watching her.
Jo looked up.
A man stood near the far end of the lobby, one shoulder resting against a stone pillar beside the fire.
Tall.
Very tall.
Dark hair. Charcoal sweater. Faded jeans. No coat.
And he was staring directly at her.
Not glancing. Staring.
Jo looked behind herself. Nothing except a carved wooden bear holding tourist brochures.
She turned back. Still staring.
Fantastic.
He was also, annoyingly, beautiful.
Broad shoulders. Long legs. Pale gray eyes. A serious mouth.
Forty, maybe. A little younger. And far too sure of himself.
Jo immediately found him irritating.
Her body, unfortunately, had reached a different conclusion.
This irritated her, but it wasn’t exactly surprising. She had been working too much. After weeks of having no time for men, of course she noticed one who looked like that.
Still.
There was noticing.
And then there was whatever her nervous system was currently doing.
She looked down at her key card.
Room 214.
Excellent. Numbers remained dependable.
“Is the kitchen still open?” she asked the clerk.
“Until eight. Limited menu after that.”
“And the Wi-Fi?”
“Working for now.”
“Perfect.”
She took her bag and headed for the stairs. She made it six steps. Then she looked back.
He hadn’t moved. His gaze followed her.
Jo turned forward again.
Absolutely not.
She was thirty-six years old. She had two board certifications. She routinely made decisions while frightened families watched her face for any sign that hope was still medically reasonable.
She did not lose her train of thought because a beautiful stranger stared at her in a mountain lodge.
Seven steps later, she looked back again.
This time his mouth moved. Barely. Almost a smile.
Oh, he knew.
That made it worse.
Jo went upstairs.
Twenty minutes later, showered and wearing jeans and a soft sweater, she came back down with her book tucked under one arm.
The lobby had filled.
Stranded guests had gathered around the fire, wet coats hung from chairs, and someone had decided the old piano near the bar required attention.
It did not.
Jo found an armchair far enough away from the pianist to reduce the risk of violence and sat.
A server appeared.
“Tea?”
“Earl Grey, please.”
“And something to eat?”
Jo glanced at the shortened menu.
“The stew. And bread.”
“We’re running low on bread.”
“Then definitely the bread.”
The server smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Jo opened her book.
The brooding Alpha on page ninety-four had just informed the heroine that she belonged to him.
Jo rolled her eyes.
Honestly. Boundaries.
She read the same paragraph three times.
Not because the book had suddenly become difficult. Because she could still feel him across the room.
Which was ridiculous.
She didn’t know his name. Hadn’t heard his voice. Knew absolutely nothing about him beyond the fact that he was tall, arrogant-looking, and apparently incapable of glancing at someone normally.
Jo tried the paragraph again.
Still nothing.
Her skin felt oddly aware. Restless.
As if some part of her had noticed him before the rest of her had caught up.
She disliked that thought immediately.
Behind her, a man said, “Move.”
He didn’t raise his voice.
A chair scraped back immediately.
Jo looked over.
Of course.
The stranger from the lobby had taken the corner seat at the bar.
The huge man beside him was already moving two stools away, drink in hand. No argument. No complaint.
If anything, he looked relieved.
Jo should probably have found that alarming.
Instead, heat curled low in her stomach.
Oh, come on.
The stranger said something to the bartender. The bartender nodded immediately. Everyone here seemed to know him. Or fear him. Possibly both.
His eyes shifted. Straight to Jo.
Caught.
She should have looked away. She didn’t. Neither did he.
For several seconds, the noise of the lobby seemed to fade around them.
Then someone walked between them carrying two bowls of soup.
Jo blinked and looked back at her book.
Ridiculous.
Her attraction to him made no sense. She didn’t know his name, hadn’t spoken to him, and already found him annoyingly hard to ignore.
Her tea arrived.
Then her stew.
Then, after what Jo suspected involved either bribery or violence, bread.
She ate, managed two actual pages of her book, and chatted briefly with an older couple stranded by the storm without somehow becoming responsible for their blood pressure medication.
By the time they headed upstairs, the windows were black behind heavy, wind-driven snow.
Jo finished her tea and stood.
The stranger was no longer at the bar.
Good.
Probably.
She slipped her book under her arm and turned toward the stairs.
He was standing near them.
Of course he was.
Up close, he was even more distracting. At least six-four. Pale eyes. Unreadable expression.
He stood near her path without actually blocking it, leaving enough room for her to pass.
Jo had the strange feeling that was intentional.
His eyes moved over her face, lingering just a little too long.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to her throat.
Jo tightened her grip on the book.
When he spoke, his voice was low.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Jo stared at him.
Seven years of coming to Blackridge, and the mountains had finally produced an asshole.
“That is an unusually rude thing to say to a woman you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty-three.”
Jo blinked.
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Somehow, that was even more annoying.
“You timed it?”
“No.”
“So you’re naturally alarming. Efficient.”
His eyes moved over her face again, as if checking something.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s snowing.”
“You should have stayed by the fire.”
“And you should try starting conversations without orders or ominous warnings.” Jo shifted toward the stairs. “We both have things to work on.”
He moved with her. Not blocking her. Just making it impossible to pretend he wasn’t there.
“I wasn’t ordering you.”
“You told a man to move, and he practically launched himself two seats away.”
“He was in my chair.”
“Was your name on it?”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t your chair.”
This time he actually smiled. Brief. Beautiful.
Far too pleased with himself.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“You first.”
He studied her for a second, as though no one had ever considered that a reasonable condition.
“Sebastian.”
Only Sebastian.
No last name. No explanation.
“Jo.”
His attention sharpened.
“Jo.”
He said it slowly, and somehow her name sounded different in his voice. Lower. More intimate than it had any right to be.
Her pulse gave one hard beat.
“Now that we’ve exchanged highly classified information,” she said, “would you like to explain why I shouldn’t be here?”
The wind hit the lodge hard enough to rattle the windows. Sebastian glanced toward them.
“The storm came in fast.”
“I noticed.”
“You drove here alone.”
It wasn’t a question.
Jo felt irritation cut through the attraction.
“Have you been watching me, or do you somehow know everyone’s travel plans?”
“You came alone. One bag. No one was waiting for you.”
“That is generally how traveling alone works.”
His gaze held hers.
“Do you always interrogate women traveling by themselves,” Jo asked, “or am I getting special treatment?”
“Only you.”
There was no teasing in his voice. He said it like it was simply true.
Heat rushed through her.
“That was almost charming.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re staring again.”
“I know.”
She waited for embarrassment. None came. He simply stood there, completely comfortable with himself.
It should have made him easier to dismiss.
Instead, Jo found herself wondering what it would take to unsettle him.
A crash sounded across the lobby.
The side door blew open. Snow swept across the slate floor as two members of staff rushed to force it shut.
Sebastian looked away from Jo.
The amusement vanished from his face.
“Lock it.”
He didn’t raise his voice. Everyone moved anyway.
Jo looked at him.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The door slammed shut. The manager secured the bolt, then looked directly at Sebastian.
Not at the desk clerk. Not at anyone else.
Sebastian gave one small nod. The manager hurried away.
Jo turned back to him.
“Who exactly are you?”
His eyes came back to hers. That almost-smile returned.
“Sebastian.”
“I’m beginning to regret asking.”
“No, you’re not.”
Arrogant bastard.
The worst part was that he was right.
