Page 14 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
She glances up from turning the bacon—fucking bacon—and smiles. “Morning.”
My chest aches with the idea of seeing this every morning for the rest of my life. I grin, approaching the kitchen, coffee already made in the corner.
“What are you doing up?” I ask, bumping her hip on my way to the coffee pot.
“Six am hit, and for some reason, I was wide awake. I figured I’d wake you with breakfast. You still take three bacon and a spinach cheese omelet?”
My hand stills over my coffee mug.
“You remember that?”
She’s quiet a moment. “Hard not to. You ate the same thing every morning since you were a teenager.”
Still. She was a kid when I was a teenager. “Someone was obsessed with me,” I tease, because the implication that shewatched me that closely all our lives does something funny to my gut.
She scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Casanova.”
I face her and lean against the back counter, watching her set the bacon on a napkin to drain.
“Oof. Nyx. You can do better than that.”
She barks a short laugh. “You’re right. I’m still working on it, Whiskey Jack.”
“No. Absolutely not,” I laugh, sipping the rich, espresso brew with one sugar and a splash of half and half she left out. “Damn, I love coffee.”
“Same,” she sips hers and folds two omelets. “Go sit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I slide into the barstool in front of her as Camille sets my plate down. “I was supposed to cook you breakfast,” I grumble, slicing into my eggs and taking a bite. The cheese, sharp, melted, mixed with the spinach, peppers, and onions. “Damn, woman. I’m kidnapping you. You can’t leave. I dub you, Kitchen wench.”
Her laughter is husky and melodic. A perfect contrast that makes up Camille Lane. “Whatever you say, Bourbon Bill.”
“Dear Lord, Nyx. You’re killing me here.” She sits next to me and bites into bacon—fucking bacon. “You’re really bad at this,” I turn my body toward her.
“Excuse you,” she gapes at me. “The creation process takes time. You have to allow yourself to try and fail. How else does one achieve magic?”
I stare. Her wide, full mouth grins, chewing more bacon.
Seriously. Don’t fucking get hard, body. I’ll never forgive you.
“Wise words,” I nod, biting into perfectly crispy bacon.
We eat, humming and making small talk about fall in Eden Ridge, how the annual Festival is coming up, confirming that yes, Old Man Jenkins still claims he grows the biggest pumpkins in the country, and Sweet Pines is still owned by the old womanwho’s always been suspicious of any Hunter boy she sees. Never understood that woman’s issue, but it’s the price of small towns.
When our plates are empty, we spin in our barstools with our coffee refills and gaze out at my large glass terrace doors. The mountains in the distance reach high in the sky, capped in white. The sun gleans over them to the right. The dense forest at the base of the mountains creates a picturesque view I’m proud of.
Beckett and Asher helped build this property over ten years ago. At the time, I didn’t know it would be mine, but they did. This has been the hideaway I’ve needed when my social battery reaches zero. It’s not that the persona I present to everyone isn’t genuinely me, but I’ve become self-aware enough at my age to recognize the need to keep the mask on. Even when I desperately just want to stay introspective, quiet, and observant…like my brothers.
“Well, if this is the view I get to see every day, kidnap away,” she says, smiling into her coffee mug.
“How are you feeling today?” Time to face what we both wish could stay outside this bubble.
Sighing, she rests her mug in her lap. “My head hurts a bit. Body’s a bit tender, achey. But, all in all, I’m good.”
I’m already up, grabbing some painkillers from the cabinet and handing them to her with a fresh bottle of water.
“Thanks,” she softly says, accepting and then taking three.
“Alright, Nyx. I’ve been thinking,” I start.
