Page 29 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

Because we’ve both known this all along. She isn’t here to stay. This is just a stop in the road to wherever she’s going.

NINE

TESSA

I wipe down the bar at the Rusty Elk with a rag that’s lived nine lives and still refuses to die.

How the hell has a town barely bigger than my old apartment building taken up so much space in my head and heart?

Or rather… how one man in it has.

You’re not hiding. You’re healing.

I’d said it to Gage without really thinking. But the way he looked at me afterward—like I’d seen something he hadn’t meant to show anyone? That look is lodged in my brain now.

Right next to the memory of his hands on mine as we freed Archie. Or when we cared for the kit.

His breath against my neck when he leaned in.

The feel of his lips, soft but hungry, like kissing me was both a mistake and a relief.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” I mutter.

“Talking to yourself now?” a voice teases.

I look up to find Jesse leaning on the counter with that crooked smile he always wears—like he knows something you haven’t figured out yet.

“Deputy,” I say, setting down the glass. “Here for a free drink?”

“You wound me,” he says. “I came to check on my brother’s new favorite stray.”

“Stray?” I arch a brow.

“You. Misty Mountain’s very own rom-com heroine. The lost girl stranded by fate, rescued by a grumpy mountain man with a tragic past and surprisingly good cooking skills.”

I laugh. “He’s just... being nice.”

Jesse lifts an eyebrow. “Nice? Gage doesn’t do nice. He does quiet. He does practical. But nice? That’s new.”

I busy myself rearranging napkins. “Okay, fine. He’s broody. Grumbly. And maybe kind of amazing.”

“Keep talking like that and the whole town’s gonna start planning your wedding.”

I throw a coaster at him. He dodges it easily and sets it back on the counter.

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. He’s... different around you. Different in a good way.”

I’m still thinking about that when the happy hour crowd dies down and the guy from the other night saunters in. The one Gage almost slugged.

I think his name was Ben.

There’s something in the way he watches me that makes my skin crawl.

“You got any real whiskey?” he asks, voice low and slick. “Or just the sweet stuff Hank likes to pretend is a manly drink?”

“It sounds like you already know the answer.”

“You really do have a mouth on you.” He smiles—slow and sour. “Give me a Jack. Make it a double.”

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