Page 42 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Molly's laugh fills the truck cab, the sound wonderfully bright, and I feel something loosen in my chest.
She settles into the passenger seat, tucking one leg underneath her, and I steal a glance as she pushes blonde hair away from her face.
She's wearing dark jeans that hug every curve like they were custom-made for her body. Knowing where she's come from, the world she's left behind, maybe they are.
She's also got a soft pink sweater that makes her eyes look like sunlight filtering through forest leaves. The light streaming through the windshield catches the gold threads woven through the knit, making her practically glow beside me.
Jesus Christ.
My jeans are suddenly uncomfortably tight, blood rushing south so fast it makes me dizzy. I grip the steering wheel harder, grateful she's looking out the window at Main Street instead of noticing the very obvious evidence of what she does to me.
"So apparently," she continues, completely oblivious to my downstairs predicament, "the entire town thinks we're some kind of romantic rescue dream team now. Sheriff Cooper cornered me at Betty's and told me those hikers we helped last night couldn't stop gushing about the 'romantic mountain couple' who saved their vacation."
I choke out a weird noise that comes from the back of my throat.
Because those words hit different this morning.
Last night, in the aftermath of that kiss, everything felt possible. In daylight, with the weight of our history pressing down, now…
I'm not so sure.
The taste of her lips, the way she'd melted against me, her fingers clutching my jacket, at the time it seemed like a door finally cracking open.
Now in the harsh light of day, with the weight of our history pressing down—her past with Riley, my own darkness,the years of silence between us—doubt creeps in like morning frost, settling cold and hard in my chest, making me question if someone as broken as me deserves even a moment of the warmth she radiates so effortlessly.
I keep driving, my knee bouncing nervously as we pass the clock tower at Town Hall.
"Does that bother you?" I ask. "Being linked to me like that?"
She turns to study my profile, those green eyes sparkling in the cab of my truck. "Being associated with you romantically?"
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
"Beau." Her voice is soft and wonderfully patient. "No. It doesn't bother me. Should it?"
Relief floods through me so fast I almost miss the stop sign at the junction of First and Third.
"It's just that most people find me difficult to be around. Difficult to talk to."
"Difficult?" She laughs, and there's something wickedly playful in it. "You? The man who rescues stranded families in blizzards and builds furniture that makes grown women weep? Never."
The sarcasm in her voice coaxes something dangerously close to a smile from me.
"Alright, alright… Smart ass."
"One of my many charms," she says, grinning. "So what's the plan, Mr. Grumpy? Where are you kidnapping me to?"
"I hadn't really thought it through." I counter, navigating past the last of Main Street's morning bustle. "What were your plans for the day?"
The question seems to catch her off guard. She goes quiet, fingers playing with the hem of her sweater.
"I… Um, I don't know," she admits finally. "I literally don't have anything to do. And that's..." She pauses, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. "For the first time in years, I can choose whatI want to do with my day, and I have absolutely no idea what I actually want. That probably makes me sound like a complete basket case."
The admission makes me bite my lip to stop from cursing at the world.
The idea that Molly—brilliant, curious, vibrant Molly—has been denied even the most basic freedom of choice for so long that it feels foreign to her makes something dark and violent unfurl in my chest.
What the hell is wrong with people? Not even people… What is wrong with my FAMILY?!
