CHAPTER 1
Ihave planned forty-seven road trips for other people and never once taken one for myself.
That's the thing about being a travel agent. You become a master architect of other people's adventures, while your own passport collects dust on the nightstand. I can tell you the best time of year to visit Santorini, the exact hotel in Tuscany with the view that will ruin all other views, and which mountain roads in Colorado are genuinely gorgeous versus the ones that appear on 'most terrifying drives' lists for a reason.
I am currently on one of the gorgeous ones.
The Rockies are doing that thing they do where they look completely fake, with their frosted peaks against a sky so blue it seems like an Instagram filter someone forgot to turn off. My truck's speakers are running a Christmas playlist I made specifically for this drive, because I am a professional and I am going to arrive at a luxury resort feeling festive and inspired, not stressed and twenty minutes late.
I'm twenty minutes late.
I came around a bend doing exactly the speed limit. I am always a cautious driver on mountain passes; I have seen what happens when people are reckless on a curve. I'm not thinkingabout being festive anymore, because right there directly in front of my car as I turn the curve, is a baby elk standing in the middle of the road.
Not a big one. A calf. On legs that seem about forty percent too long for its body, with one front leg held at an angle that makes my stomach drop straight through the floorboard. He’s obviously injured.
I hit the brakes.
My truck screams. The anti-lock system chatters under my foot like it's personally offended by my driving. The whole world outside my windshield narrows down to those huge dark eyes blinking at me, and the smell of burnt rubber fills the cab, and I finally come to a stop.
Three feet from the calf's nose. Maybe less.
Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god.
Then something hits my bumper.
Not a crash, exactly. More like a firm, decisive thump that snaps my teeth together and sends my phone skidding off the passenger seat. For a full second I just sit there in my own adrenaline, both hands locked white-knuckled on the wheel.
Then my hazards go on, call it a muscle memory, bless it, and I shove the door open and climb out onto the road, because apparently my body has decided that standing on a mountain highway is a better option than staying safely inside my vehicle. You know, because I’m the queen at making good decisions.
The truck behind me is big. Bigger than mine, which is saying something. Silver, with a livestock transport rack in the bed and a metal cage tie-strapped to the back. The driver's door is already opening before I've finished processing what I'm looking at.
The man who gets out is tall.
Really tall.
Dark canvas work jacket. Dark hair, a little overgrown. The kind of jaw that needs a shave and somehow looks better for not having had one. He moves like someone who has been in emergencies before and decided somewhere along the way that they don't require drama. He’s unhurried but efficient, taking in the whole scene in a single sweep.
His eyes land on me.
Then on the elk.
Then back on me.
Dark eyes. Very dark. If tall, dark and handsome was in the dictionary, his photo would be next to the definition.
"The elk," I say, pointing, because near-death experiences apparently reduce my vocabulary to two words. "It's injured."
"I know." He's not looking at me anymore. He's already pulling heavy gloves from his jacket pocket like this was always the plan. "That's why I'm here."
"I'm… sorry?" It wasn’t fate that brought him to this road? Dang. I’m a big believer in serendipity.
"Wildlife rescue." He says it the way someone says Tuesday. "Anthony Rossi. I got a call about an injured calf twenty minutes ago."
I look at the calf and back at his truck. There’s a reason there is a cage in the bed. Of course! Then I look at his face. It takes me a second to breathe again. Damn, he’s sexy.
He was coming to rescue it. He was coming to rescue the elk and I stopped short and he hit me and —
"So this is your call," I say. "I stopped in front of you on your way to rescue him."
