Page 1 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
Chapter 1
Homecoming
The windshield wipers struggleagainst the downpour as I navigate the winding mountain road toward Angel's Peak. Each rhythmic swipe reveals another slice of the familiar landscape—pine trees standing sentinel along the roadside, granite cliffs rising in the distance, and below, the valley where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.
Ten years. A decade since I last saw this view.
My rental car wheezes as it climbs the steep grade, the engine protesting as thunder cracks overhead. The storm mirrors the turbulence in my chest—a chaotic swirl of nostalgia, anxiety, and something else I can't quite name.
Or refuse to.
"Just a few days," I remind myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Get the story. Write the article. Go home."
Home.
The word catches in my throat. Chicago is home now—busy streets, crowded subway cars, the constant hum of a city that never truly sleeps. Not this quiet mountain town where everyone knows your name, your business, and probably your secrets too.
My editor's words echo in my mind:"Small towns are hot right now, Riley. Tourist destinations reinventing themselvespost-pandemic. Angel's Peak is perfect—quaint, scenic, and you've got the local connection. This piece could clinch your promotion to senior features editor."
The promotion. The corner office. The validation that leaving was the right choice.
The rental car shudders, then coughs. A warning light flashes on the dashboard.
"No, no, no..." I tap the gauge, as if that might help. The engine sputters once, twice, then dies completely.
Perfect.
I coast to the shoulder, the tires crunching on wet gravel. The rain intensifies, hammering the roof like impatient fingers. I check my phone—no service. Angel's Peak might have reinvented itself, but apparently, cell coverage still isn't its strong suit.
Cursing under my breath, I grab my raincoat from the passenger seat and step out into the deluge. Frigid raindrops immediately assault my face, and the mountain wind cuts through my city-appropriate layers. I hold my phone high, turning in a slow circle, searching for even a single bar of service.
Headlights appear in the distance, cutting through the gray curtain of rain. The vehicle slows as it approaches, and I squint against the glare, making out the outline of an SUV with official markings.
It pulls alongside my stranded rental, and the driver's window descends to reveal a face I'd know anywhere. A face I secretly hoped to avoid until I had my bearings.
Noah Morgan.
My high school sweetheart.
My first love.
The boy I left behind.
Except there's no trace ofboyleft.
"Car trouble?" The voice is deeper now—rougher, darker. Gravel and honey, all male, and it scrapes down my spine like a caress I didn't ask for but desperately want more of.
My breath punches out of my lungs.
The years didn't just treat him kindly—theyworshippedhim.
Sculptedhim.
Turned teenage charm into lethal masculinity. His jaw is sharper now, shadowed in a perfect dusting of stubble I want to feel scraping against my thighs. That wide, solid chest strains against a shouldn't-be-legal Fire Chief's uniform, sleeves shoved up to reveal strong forearms dusted with golden hair and corded with muscle.
And those hands.
God, those hands.
