Page 7 of Beast of Misty Mountain

“Dowe have any coffee back there? I’m running on fumes right now.”

Hank glances up from the taps, his brows arching over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Stay up all night?”

“Ha.” I laugh. “No, but I didn’t sleep well. Just busy, and I need a pick-me-up,” I say, ducking under the bar to grab a fresh stack of napkins. “But seriously—caffeine. Please tell me there’s a pot brewing.”

He finishes pouring an IPA and pushes it and the rest of my next order toward me. “Deliver these. I’ll pour you a cup.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” I grab the tray and balance it with one hand.

The Rusty Elk is louder than usual today.

Tables are packed elbow to elbow, tourists glowing with sunburns as they drink the microbrews Hank says he orders only for tourist season, as the locals nurse pints and side-eye the chaos. Two guys are arguing over pool rules in the back corner.

I weave through it all with a tray balanced on one hand, three drinks tucked into the crook of my other arm. My boots stick slightly near table seven—someone dropped a cocktail earlier and didn’t bother telling anyone. I sidestep the slick spot, force a smile, and set a beer in front of a guy in a backward hat who grunts a thanks without looking up.

The boost from my latte earlier is long gone, and my energy level is crashing…hard. I feel like a zombie. I barely slept after the confrontation with Milo last night, and my muscles ache from this non-stop busy shift. My feet are throbbing.

I duck back to the bar, set the tray down with more force than necessary, and lean in toward Hank.

I cross the floor again, dodging elbows and half-hearted line dancers near the jukebox. Table ten’s been nursing a buzz sinceI clocked in. Trail gear, suntans, big grins. The guy sitting closest to the edge has been eyeing me all night like I’m part of the menu. He reminds me too much of Mark for me to even consider giving him the time of day.

“Here we go,” I say as I set down the pints. “Two IPAs, one cider, and a whiskey sour with extra sour.”

The guy leans back in his chair, arms spread, grin wide. “You remembered.”

“I tend to,” I say. Of all the attempted pick-up lines, this is lame by anyone’s standard. “It’s my job.”

“You make it look good,” he adds, and his voice slides low like it’s meant to mean something more. Does he think he’s sexy?Blech.

I shift the tray under my arm and prepare to turn.

Then his hand lands on my ass, and I freeze. Not my arm. Not my hand. Right on my ass, like he’s marking his territory.

A flush burns through me, and I go completely still. There’s a split second when I don’t even breathe like my mind can’t even process the audacity of this asshole. Not after everything else. Not after every leering tourist who thinks a tight shirt means I want their number or a forced smile is an invitation to touch.

This is my job. I like my job. But I’m so sick of handsy tourists like this guy thinking it’s their right to grab whatever they want.

My voice comes out low and clipped. “Move it,” I say. “Or the only thing you’ll be touching is an ice pack.”

The guy laughs loud enough to make the table shift uncomfortably. But he doesn’t move his hand, and none of the men he’s with call him out on his behavior. Figures.

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” he says. “But seriously, don’t wear tight jeans if you don’t want to be touched.”

My stomach twists. The sharp edge of fury is so familiar it makes me want to scream. I take another step back, my hand curling into a fist.

And then suddenly, Milo is beside me, and the guy’s smirk falters.

Beast doesn’t say a word. He stands there—towering and terrifying in a silent way that doesn’t need volume.

“Get your hand off the lady,” Beast growls.

The guy’s hand is immediately gone from my ass as he darts his eyes away from Beast and me. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters, voice unsteady now.

Beast says nothing.

He shrinks back. “Look, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was taken.”

I head back to the bar before I say something that gets me fired. Hank knows how it is for me, but there are limits to how much we can mouth off to a customer, even if it’s a guy getting handsy. I’m supposed to get him, but that always feels like being a tattletale and not being able to handle a situation on my own.

---