Page 32 of Grumpy on the Mountain
My heart hammers against my ribs, and every nerve ending in my body is screaming for his touch. Then, just as I think he's finally going to kiss me, a buzzing sound erupts between us.
Beau jerks back, reaching for his pocket.
"Sorry," he mutters, checking his phone screen.
"Is that your phone, or are you just naturally vibrational?" I joke, trying to mask my disappointment with humor.
"Fuck. It's Mountain Rescue," he says, already stepping back. "Jamie says he needs me."
"Oh. Sounds exciting!" I add, trying to sound supportive despite my disappointment.
Beau looks uncomfortable on his feet. "I really should go. Jamie only calls me when he's absolutely desperate."
"It's fine," I say. "Really."
Beau studies me for a moment, his eyes traveling from my face down to my completely impractical shoes and back up again.
"You know what?" He sighs then smiles. "You wanna come?"
Chapter Eight
Beau
I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road instead of the woman beside me.
What the fuck was I thinking?
"You wanna come?"
What an idiot.
Now Molly Jennings is sitting in my truck, her dinner outfit completely wrong for a mountain rescue, and we're heading toward a part of my life I've never shared with anyone.
This woman was almost my sister-in-law. My brother's fiancée. The one person I should stay far away from.
And now I can't seem to stay away from her.
Riley might be a world-class asshole, but surely there are lines you don't cross. Especially with family.
Not that he'd ever extended me the same courtesy.
I wonder, with a twinge of guilt that surprises me, how much of my attraction to Molly is wrapped up in my complicated history with my brother.
Is this some fucked-up way of getting back at him? Of taking something he valued?
One glance at her profile in the dim light of the dashboard, and I know that's bullshit. Whatever this is between us has nothing to do with Riley.
The truck's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating snow-laden pines on either side of the winding road. Every few seconds, my eyes betray me, sliding to the right where Molly sits with her hands tucked between her knees, those green eyes taking in everything.
That sweater she wore to dinner, deep burgundy and clinging to curves I have no business noticing, is about as practical for a mountain rescue as a swimsuit in Antarctica.
She catches me glancing at her outfit again and raises an eyebrow. "What? Is there something on my sweater?"
"Your sweater's fine. It's your shoes that are the death trap."
She laughs, looking down at her heels. "What, these aren't standard issue mountain rescue footwear? I'm shocked."
I smile for what must be the millionth fucking time tonight.
