Page 33 of Grumpy on the Mountain

The truth is, I've had a great time. And I didn't want it to end.

I wanted to kiss her and drag her back to my truck. Maybe we could have gone up to the lookout and laid out in the back of my truck, star gaze together while wrapped up in warm blankets.

Instead, here we are, with the Mountain Rescue headquarters coming into view. The place is a former fire station, with timber accents and massive bay doors.

Even from here I can see the movement inside, the organized chaos of multiple rescue operations gearing up.

My throat constricts, and for a moment I can't breathe. My hands tighten on the wheel as memories of the last time I was here surface.

The radio static, the shouted orders, the metallic scent of blood mixing with forest. I had a gut-wrenching flashback that forced me to back down from the last mission Jamie asked me to jump in on.

It's the reason I haven't been back here since. The reason I don't usually answer his calls.

"Hey..." Molly's voice cuts through the fog. "Are you okay?"

I start to nod automatically, the way I always do when people ask that question. But something about her genuine concern breaks through my usual defenses.

"Places like this... still hard sometimes," I admit, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "They, um… they remind me of things I'd rather forget. That's all."

I expect pity, or worse, questions.

Instead, Molly reaches over and squeezes my hand where it rests on the gearshift.

"Thank you for telling me that," she says simply.

Her fingers are warm, slender, and surprisingly strong. And I never fucking want her to let go.

I stare at her hand on mine, shocked by how such a small touch can anchor me to the present when nothing else has worked. No therapy sessions, no fancy doctors and their little white pills.

"We don't have to go in," she offers. "You could tell me what they need, and I could relay it."

The absurdity of her suggestion—city girl in heels acting as my rescue liaison—almost makes me laugh.

"No," I say, finally pulling into a parking space. "I can handle it."

What I don't say is that somehow, her presence makes it easier. Which makes no fucking sense at all.

We get inside and pretty quickly, the main operations room hits me with a wall of noises I still hear in the silence of the darkest of nights.

I instinctively square my shoulders, my body remembering a uniform it no longer wears, responding to a chain of command that no longer claims me.

Maps cover one wall, marked with color-coded pins for different types of emergencies. Jamie Striker looks up from a topographical map spread across the central table, surprise registering on his face when he spots us.

"Callahan!" he calls, striding over. His eyes shift to Molly with undisguised interest. "Didn't expect you to bring a date to a rescue."

Heat crawls up my neck. "She's not—We weren't—"

"I was in the wrong place at the right time, apparently," Molly interjects smoothly, saving me from my own nervous fumbling.

Jamie's grin widens. "Well, lucky for us then. I'm Jamie Striker, Mountain Rescue coordinator." He extends a hand to Molly, holding her grip a beat too long. "We've got some extra gear that would fit you perfectly."

A flare of something hot and possessive surges through me. Right now, that's a dangerous concoction given what's going on inside my head.

"I'll handle her gear," I interrupt, surprising myself with the edge in my voice.

Her gear? When did she become my responsibility?

And what right do I have to feel this way? She was Riley's. And Callahan men don't share well. That's a toxic trait I swore I'd never inherit from our father.