Page 5 of Grumpy on the Mountain

She's got a coffee mug clutched in both hands like it's the only thing anchoring her to reality, and there's a designer suitcase beside her table that's been through some kind of war.

She looks like trouble wrapped in cashmere.

I tear my eyes away, forcing my face back into the neutral mask I've perfected since Afghanistan. I adjust my grip on the antique chair I've been carrying through the blizzard. The one Betty insisted needed "just a little love" when the back spindle cracked last week.

The café is exactly as it always is: warm, golden, smelling like cinnamon and coffee. The kind of place that makes you think the world might not be complete shit.

Except now it's also got Molly Jennings in it. Which means my past is sitting at that window table, staring at me like she's seen a ghost.

But here's the thing that hits me hardest.

She's looking right at me, sparkling eyes scanning my face with polite curiosity but not a single ounce of recognition. No,holy shit, is that Beau Callahan?

"Beau Callahan," Betty calls out, wiping her hands on her apron. "What in heaven's name are you doing coming down the mountain in this weather?"

I clear my throat and look away from Molly, pushing forward towards the counter where Betty meets me with a kind smile. A smile I definitely don't deserve.

"Fewer people around in storms, ma'am. Fewer faces to pretend to smile at."

Betty snorts. "Charming as ever."

I set the chair down next to the counter, deliberately keeping my back to the window table. I can feel Molly's eyes on me. Can practically hear her pulse from here.

Of course she doesn't fucking recognize me. Why would she?

The last time she saw me, I was a lean twenty-something with a military cut, clean-shaven and unmarked. Well before the shrapnel pierced my skin. Before the nightmares that keep me up every fucking night.

I'm thirty-six now. Two hundred pounds of hard-earned muscle and scar tissue, with a beard that's gone gray at the edges and eyes that have seen shit I'll never talk about.

The kid she knew enlisted the day after graduation and disappeared into the Army. The man standing here came backcarrying ghosts and a military-issued purple heart I keep in a drawer and try to forget about.

But I remember her. Every goddamn detail.

"Loose screw in the joint," I say, running my hand over the smooth wood, trying to keep my thoughts in check. "Should hold now."

"You're a godsend." Betty bustles over, examining my work. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. It was just a loose screw."

"Don't you dare give me that, Mr. Callahan." She's marching to the register, punching buttons with the authority of someone who's settled this exact argument a hundred times before. "Things need proper attention, even the small fixes."

"It was a loose screw. Took five minutes."

I'm about to tell her where she can stick her money when she appears beside me, cash in hand. Before I can react, she's shoving the bills into my back pocket and giving my ass a pat that's definitely crossing some kind of weird older-lady boundary.

"Betty—"

"Hush. Buy yourself something nice." She winks like she's just accomplished some major life goal.

Something nice.Like what? Another flannel shirt? More ammunition? A personality that doesn't send people running?

Betty's hand finds my arm, her fingers surprisingly strong for a woman her age. "Perfect timing you dropping by, actually. We've got ourselves a situation that could use a man with your… skills."

I make the mistake of glancing over. Molly's still watching me, her green eyes wide, a cookie frozen halfway to her mouth.

Her hair is damp from melted snow, and there's a smudge of mascara under her eye. It's the kind of detail I was trainedto notice, but now I want to know whether it's smudged from crying, or from the storm swirling around outside.

A surge of protectiveness rises in my chest, and I feel my hands squeeze tighter.