Page 102 of Mountain Daddy (Mountain Men #2)

Kendra

“Fuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut. The sunrise creeping in around the curtains is too much for me to handle.

The pillow against my cheek feels damp, and my throat aches like I’ve been talking in my sleep.

But it’s not from talking. It’s from crying.

I was crying in my fucking sleep. Because even in unconsciousness, I can’t shake thoughts of him.

And if sleep isn’t safe, then I guess I’ll get up.

And it’ll be better if I’m tired today. I can let the exhaustion distract me.

Staying in my worn sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, I shuffle my way down the hall toward the scent of coffee.

Dad seems to already be gone for the day, and that’s for the best.

I can only say I’m crying over Buddy so many times before Dad either gets suspicious or assumes I’m having a complete mental breakdown.

My eyes snag on the bag of coffee beans sitting next to the coffee maker.

The beans Luther bought me.

And my damn eyes start to burn. Again.

Probably am having that breakdown.

I cross the room and pick up the bag.

It’s been opened.

I unroll the top and sniff the beans inside. Then I take the carafe off the warmer and sniff the steam floating up from the surface.

Definitely having that breakdown.

With my free hand, I take a mug out of the cupboard and fill it with the special Chilean brew.

For a moment, I consider drinking it black, like Luther does. But I’m already sad. So I take my hazelnut creamer out of the fridge and add some to my coffee.

Then I take the container of leftover breakfast sausage out of the fridge, dropping the lid in the sink.

Carefully, I balance the Tupperware on top of my mug, and I pull the back door open.

Somehow managing not to spill, I bring my goods over to the stairs and take a seat.

“Buddy?” I say quietly, in case he’s sleeping, and set the glass dish of sausage on the bottom step.

I know leaving food out isn’t a great idea since I don’t want to accidentally attract bears. Or mountain lions.

And I know cooked meat isn’t the usual diet of a wild fox.

But I literally cannot handle the thought of Buddy going hungry because his foot is injured.

Sighing, I cup my mug with both my hands, and I stare down at the liquid for a long minute before I take a sip.

When I do, I curse.

Of course it’s delicious.

Why? Why can’t it be terrible?

If it were terrible, I’d happily throw the bag away and never have to drink it again.

But I can’t do that. Not with good coffee.

The heaviness that’s been looming around me settles on my chest as I stare off at nothing.

How am I going to do this?

Luther is best friends with my dad. They hang out all the time. How am I supposed to stay here and pretend I’m okay being around him?

I think about the possibility of Luther dating someone his age who doesn’t want kids .

Think about him bringing her over here for dinner.

Think about my dad telling me stories about Luther and his new woman, not knowing he’s breaking my heart with every word.

I think about it.

And I truly don’t think I could handle it.

Setting my coffee down, I stand and head back inside, leaving the door open an inch as I do.

It only takes me a moment to retrieve my laptop, then I return to my spot on the steps.

I place the laptop on my thighs and open it, spending the next thirty minutes sipping my coffee and searching for corporate assistant jobs in Denver.

A few sound decent. And I apply for them because I need to give myself options. But honestly… I like working for my dad.

Tired of applications, I open a new browser and search for apartments in Denver. With the amount Dad is paying me, I could keep working for him but still move out. And Denver is close enough for a day visit, but it would put a few hours between me and Luther.

A few states would be better, but I won’t let this breakup rule my future, and I like living in Colorado.

Minutes go by while I scroll apartments, and a streak of red catches my attention.

Looking up from my screen, I spot Buddy darting toward me.

“Hey, Buddy.” I smile at his perfect little face.

He smiles back before shouting at me and leaping at the sausages.

My smile grows when I realize he wasn’t limping.

“Well, you seem to be feeling better.”

Buddy lets out another one of his scratchy shouts. Then downs another sausage.

I laugh. “You must be a growing boy.” As I say it, I wonder how old he is.

After opening a new web browser, I start a search for How to tell how old a fox is .

In the results is a suggested question for How long do foxes live .

I click on it.

I should not have clicked on it.

That sadness inside me folds in on itself. Doubling. Tripling.

“That… That can’t be true,” I sob.

Unable to help myself, I search more. And the answer is still the same.

Buddy tilts his head, looking at me.

“It’s not true.” I lie to him. “Foxes can live forever.”