Page 12 of Backed By You (Montgomery Brothers of Montana #3)

Callie

Well, this isn’t codependent at all.

The moment Beau made the offer to be my ‘backup’ for the night in place of Hulk, I’d never wanted to accept someone’s help so fast in my life.

Telling him the truth about Hulk and what he means to me wasn’t about gaining sympathy, it was about…

Well, I’m not sure. After his confession, or story rather, from when he was shot, I felt like I needed to return the favor.

Silly, I suppose.

I should be anxious beyond measure with him in my house, using my bathroom, agreeing to sleep on the couch—be here alone with me all night. Instead, I’m calm for the first time in days.

I move around the small kitchen, fishing out my chamomile tea in hopes of calming my nerves enough to get some sleep tonight.

Hulk is going to need all my attention tomorrow.

I fill the kettle and set it on the stove.

The sound of the shower running provides a strangely domestic backdrop to my movements and feels far more natural than it should.

Beau Montgomery.

Former military, grumpy landlord, mountain rescue extraordinaire.

And now my temporary backup for the night.

The kettle whistles just as the water shuts off in the bathroom. I pour the boiling water over two tea bags, the fragrant steam rising to my face. My temple throbs with a heartbeat of its own, a steady reminder of today’s events.

The bathroom door opens, and Beau emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing loose, black shorts and…nothing else. His hair is damp, random beads of water still clinging to his exposed chest and abdomen. He looks younger somehow, the day’s grime finally washed away.

“I made tea,” I say, holding up a mug.

His strong brow furrows as he drops his bag by the couch before walking toward me. “I don’t think I’ve had tea before.” He accepts the mug, our fingers brushing momentarily.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I buy this at the farmer’s market on Tuesdays in town. There’s a girl who grows and bags it all herself. You probably know her. I think she grew up here. Super sweet.”

He grunts, sniffing the mug before tentatively bringing it to his lips. “Not bad.” He lifts his chin toward me. “How’s the head?”

“Hurts,” I admit, propping a hip against the counter, my mug clasped between my hands as I blow on it softly.

He nods, taking another sip of his tea.

An awkward silence settles between us. We’re somewhat strangers who’ve gone through an intense evening together, and now we’re standing in my home drinking tea like old friends.

I’m not sure how to feel about it.

“I should probably shower, too,” I say, setting my mug down. “Wash off all the…” I gesture vaguely to my blood and dirt-matted hair.

He steps back, giving me space as I walk past him. “If you need any help—” He stops abruptly and I lift my gaze in time to watch color rise to his cheeks. “I mean, with the walking boot, or—” He shakes his head. “Never mind. That came out wrong.”

I can’t help the small smile that crosses my face. Why does he seem so nervous? “I think I can manage.”

I head for the bathroom, breathing in the lingering scent of his soap.

The hot water is heaven on my sore muscles, though I have to be careful around my stitches and keep my weight on one foot.

When I emerge fifteen minutes later, I’m wearing the only clean clothes I have left—silky sleep shorts and an oversized university hoodie.

I’ve managed to get the walking boot back on, and suffice to say, it looks ridiculous paired with my pajamas.

Beau is sitting on the couch, his attention snapping to me when I limp into the room. His jaw ticks openly as he looks me over, then averts his gaze. “Better?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.

“Much.” I lower myself carefully onto the opposite end of the couch, wincing as I prop my booted foot on the coffee table. “Though I’ll feel a hundred percent better when I have Hulk back.”

He watches me over the rim of his mug. “He’s in good hands.”

I snort a short laugh. “You keep saying that.”

A slow grin loosens his hard features and the sight of it feels like a small victory compared to our first encounter. “Sorry. I’m not the best when it comes to comforting someone,” he tells me. “Or with words.”

I smile. “I think you’re doing all right so far.”

I peer over my shoulder at my tea I left on the counter in the kitchen, and without a word, he stands to retrieve it. When he hands it to me, I giggle. “See. You’re already doing so good.”

He smiles a second time as he retakes his seat beside me. “You’re not gonna tell me I’m being a good boy, are you?”

I sputter with laughter, having to wipe tea from my lips while I eye him. Did he just make a joke? And a rather good one at that. “I can if you want me to,” I tease.

He chuckles. “I think I’m all right.”

We sit in silence for a moment, sipping from our mugs. It’s not as awkward now. More contemplative on the day’s events. I almost wish the couch was smaller so he’d sit closer. Almost .

“So,” he says finally, “is there a boyfriend I should know about? Anyone who might show up I should be looking out for?”

The question catches me off guard. “No, um, no one and no boyfriend either.” I tilt my head, studying him and the relaxation in his shoulders when I say, ‘no boyfriend.’ I shift in my spot, angling my body in a way my booted foot can rest on the cushion between us.

My back to the arm of the couch to face him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs, refusing to meet my gaze. “Thought maybe there was someone who should know you’re okay.”

“My dad, maybe,” I say, feeling a pang of worry at not having my phone to call him or Shea and tell them what happened. I curl my good leg beneath me. “What about you? Will your girlfriend be worried about you spending the night in another woman’s cabin?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “No girlfriend.”

Can’t say I didn’t pick up on that. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” he asks far too quickly, but his dark eyes are on me now.

I prefer them that way. On me .

I smile, the day’s tension easing. “By the way,” I start, tapping the ceramic mug with a fingernail. “And this is just to be clear, you know, set the record straight.”

His brow furrows.

“It was the trail that caused us to fall, not my shoes.”

One manly, judgy brow of his quirks upward. “If you say so,” he mutters, lifting his mug to his lips smeared with a knowing grin. The jerk.

Though, I will be ordering hiking boots once my ankle heals.

I roll my eyes and change the subject. “So, tell me something I don’t already know about you,” I say, settling deeper into the couch.

“Not much to tell,” he grumbles. “What you see is what you get.”

“You’re easier to read than you think, soldier boy.”

His jaw ticks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “Nothing.”

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.” His tone is rough, defensive. And I fear I’m striking a nerve I didn’t intend to.

“You can play tough guy all you like, but…I see you. I see what you want people to see, and I understand what you don’t want them to see.”

He’s silent as he stares at me. His jaw ticks in time with what I assume are his racing thoughts. He looks away, and the moment slowly dies between us.

No one likes to be called out, but I think he may hate it the most.

“Come on,” I coax, tapping his thigh with my booted foot in an attempt to lighten the mood. “There has to be something the world doesn’t know about Beau Montgomery.”

He scoffs, but seems to think for a moment. “I enjoy traveling,” he says finally, and if I could do a tiny victory dance at him opening up with three words, I’d happily make a fool of myself. “Seeing new places, trying new foods. Not really a people person, though, so the two kind of clash a bit.”

“Really?” I feign surprise. “Beau Montgomery isn’t a people person? I’m shocked.” I try to picture him standing outside the Eiffel Tower or viewing the Grand Canyon, those large arms crossed in front of him as he does. Silent. Stoic. Simply admiring the view. It fits, somehow.

He chuckles— finally letting loose. “Your turn.”

“I write screenplays. Horror movies, to be specific.”

His brows rise. “You’re kidding.”

“Have you ever seen The Devil’s Lake ?” I ask, and he nods. I point to myself. “All me.”

“Now I’m impressed.” He leans back, regarding me with new interest. “How did you get into that?”

The tea cools in my hands as I explain my writing journey throughout high school and college. He listens intently, asking questions here and there. The conversation flows easily from movies to places we’ve traveled and places we still wish to see someday.

It’s strange how comfortable it feels, sitting here with him. Like we’ve known each other longer than a few weeks. Or maybe it’s just him. Something about his steady presence makes me feel safe.

As I listen to him talk about his time overseas, I realize for the first time since the accident, I’ve gone several minutes without thinking about Hulk.

The guilt is immediate, but then I remember what Beau said earlier about how sometimes the bravest thing is accepting help , and the tension in my shoulders eases.

Maybe, just for tonight, I can let myself be distracted by this unexpected friendship.

Hulk would approve, I think.