Page 2 of Promises on the Mountain

The guys continue to jostle each other and grumble behind me while I make Jake's drink, pulling shots for Adam's simple order while I'm at it.

The bells on the door ring again and I'm expecting Howard or maybe the guys that work up at the hydro plant on their morning run.

Instead, there's some grunts and protests. The guys go quiet, making the heavy foot falls on the tile floor sound loud in the small shop.

When I turn back to the counter, it's not Jake standing there. The boys have moved down to the far end of the counter, about as far as they can get from the man standing in front of me now.

"Thanks, April."

I hear Jake's voice somewhere off to my side as he takes the hot beverage from my hand, but I don't look at him. I can't. I can only look at the new guy in my coffee shop. All six foot four of him. With the beard and the flannel and the muscles bulging under the plaid cloth and the whiskey hazel eyes making me feel something I've never experienced before.

Raine

If I'd known Cane was going to order my ass down the mountain at the ass-crack of dawn this morning, I'd have made my own coffee before I left the house. Better yet, I'd have stayed home and let the lug do his own grunt-work.

Ever since Cane came back home, he's been bossing me around, giving me more work than I signed on for up at the camp.

But I can't deny that big bro has made a lot of improvements in the way camp operates and it's true that somebody has to be the one making the runs down to Slow River when we need lumber or hardware-- God knows Birch McAllister isn't about to give a Hart a fair price on local wood from the mill here on the Ridge.

The tavern doesn't open for breakfast till nine on the weekdays and the gas station coffee is barely better than boiled peat moss. Come to think of it, boiled peat might taste better.

The staff up at the camp have been raving about this new coffee place that opened in town and when I drive by, I see the place is open before it's even six a.m.

Pulling the truck into the parking lot that runs in the front of the building, I have to park way down in front of Eddy and Ginger's pizza place. Which is, of course, closed right now. There's already a line of trucks taking up the spaces in front of the cafe.

This is gran's building. Brick & Porter takes up suites eight and nine on one end of the long, ranch style building, with my grandmother's local history museum at the other end in the first suite.

The new coffee place is in between them, close to the pizza place with just one empty spot between them.

The windows are sporting curtains in a cutesy baby blue gingham check tied back with bows made of burlap and when I open the door, my ears are assaulted by what sounds like Santa's sleigh coming in for a damn landing.

It's cheerful as fuck in here. That gingham check and burlap is everywhere, with a few little tables with chairs that look like they'd collapse if I tried to sit in one. There are silk flowers in old Coke bottles on the tables and the whole place looks like one of those Pinterest boards my sister makes for her flower business.

There's no donuts or muffins in here, just a chalkboard mounted on the wall behind the counter with a drink menu that says everything but "coffee," and the cheapest drink I see is six bucks.

I sure as hell never need to step foot in here again, between the expensive, over-priced, citified drink menu and the country-chic decor like we're in Kansas or some shit and not the damn mountains. Not to mention the line of local assholes pressed up around the counter pretending they know the difference between a cappuccino and an Americano.

Fuck this. I'll wait till I get to the diner down in Keller's and grab a to-go order.

I'm about to turn on my heel when I hear it, a throaty, feminine laugh that goes straight to my dick in a way I haven't felt in years.

"What the fuck, man?" One of the guys says as I elbow my way to the front of the line. When he sees who I am, though, he shuts the fuck up and moves out of the way.

My brothers and I have a reputation on this mountain, everyone up here knows you don't fuck with the Hart boys unless you're ready to get punched-- hard. Looks like someone's already warned these kids about us and no one's willing to get in a fight before the sun's all the way up.

She has her back turned to me, working the big espresso machine with an expertise that shows that this is her passion. She didn't come up here thinking a coffee shop would be a fun business to open after a few years of working at one the big coffee chains that uses automated machinery.

When she turns around so I get a good look at her I can't think right.

She's a fucking vision, with bright blonde hair piled up on top of her head and big blue eyes that stare back at me wide and screaming innocence. Like she's never set eyes on a man before.

A full apron that matches all the checkered shit in here is tied around her waist, accentuating curves that look like they could keep my hands busy for days.

A heart-shaped named tag pinned to the strap that wraps behind her neck says "April" in happy, girlish handwriting written in silver glitter.

I want to reach over and grab that name tag, scratch out her name and write "Property of Raine Hart" on it so every asshole that comes in here knows she's mine.

April holds the drink she just made out for the guy to take, but her eyes don't leave mine.

---