Page 21 of Jason Bourne (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #7)

Jason

L ane didn’t get five minutes to wash the goat mud off her bare feet before the first knock hit the door.

A rapid-fire tap-tap-tap that made Thor lift his head from his sunny spot on the floor and huff like, not again .

She froze mid-step, one of my flannels thrown over her sleep shirt, hair pinned up with a pen she’d stolen from my desk.

“Jason. Who. Is that.”

I grinned from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. “Mountain welcoming committee.”

She squinted murder at me. “They better have my damn boot.”

I opened the door to find not just one neighbor — but three .

Martha Hudson, who ran the local bakery and had once stitched a bullet graze on my forearm with fishing line. Roy Hayes, Nate’s uncle and unofficial mayor of our end of the mountain. And behind them, an elderly man everyone just called Grandpa Joe, holding a pie dish like it was a sacred offering.

Martha barged in first. “Well! If it ain’t the prodigal mountain rat! And you must be the spitfire who finally dragged him home for good.”

Lane blinked. “Uh— I— well, hi—”

Martha seized her hand and patted it like she was checking for fractures. “I’m Martha. I make pies. I also run gossip more efficiently than the internet, so behave, dear.”

Lane shot me a save me look. I just leaned in the doorway, sipping my coffee.

Roy tipped his hat. “Name’s Roy Hayes. Welcome to our weird little patch of heaven. Heard you wrestled Gus for your boots this morning.”

Lane deadpanned, “Gus still owes me a left boot and an apology.”

Roy barked a laugh so loud that Thor grumbled and buried his head under his paws.

Then Grandpa Joe shuffled forward, offering the pie dish with shaky reverence. “This here’s my famous blackberry pie. A young lady like you needs something sweet after fighting the local wildlife.”

She took it carefully, staring at the bubbling purple filling like it might explode. “Thank you, Grandpa Joe.”

He beamed, then stage-whispered to me, “She’s prettier than the last one you brought home.”

Lane choked. “The last one?”

I coughed into my mug, fighting back laughter. “He means the goat. Long story.”

Martha patted Lane’s shoulder again. “Don’t mind him, honey. You’ll get used to us. You might even like it here.”

Lane shot me a side-eye so lethal I nearly dropped my coffee.

“Did you bribe them to say that?” she hissed.

I bent to kiss her cheek. “Nope. This is all free entertainment.”

They stayed a full half hour — swapping stories about the time Roy chased Gus off his porch with a snow shovel, Martha promising to teach Lane to bake real pies, Grandpa Joe nodding off in my armchair while Thor slept at his feet.

When they finally left, Lane shut the door behind them and leaned her forehead against it, pie dish still clutched to her chest.

“I have never met so many lunatics in my life,” she whispered.

I wrapped my arms around her from behind, burying my nose in her hair. “You love it.”

She snorted. “Shut up.”

I pressed a kiss to her neck, my voice soft and sure. “And you love me.”

Her sigh was all fake exasperation and real surrender. “God help me… yeah. I really do.”