Page 3 of Close to the Edge

Back in the military, my size was an asset. It made me strong, sturdy, and let’s face it: a human shield. Got the scars to prove it too. But out here in the real world, it makes me a freak show.

The little boy keeps staring, but I duck my head and walk on. No need to make a scene.

My strides carry me past a coffee shop, still open with packed tables set out in the sunshine; a rickety old hotel with a No Vacancies sign in the window; a bike shop, bakery and thrift store. The sidewalk is dusty beneath my boots, like it hasn’t rained here in weeks, and whenever the chaos of town gets to be too much for me, my eyes drift up to the mountains above and linger there for a while.

It looks calm up there. All bluish bare rock and evergreen forest. Rugged but peaceful.

So I guess I get it, even if I don’t want to. Guess I understand why Rowan fled up there all those years ago.

We all have our demons, after all. Even folks who haven’t served have plenty of battle scars.

On the north side of town, there’s some kind of rock bar with bench tables crowded in the yard. Music thrums through the air and motorbikes gleam in a line, and as I walk past, my steps slow down and then stop.

The customers laugh and chat and knock back their drinks, a few of them looking over at me, but most of them are wrapped up in their own worlds. At the nearest table, a mutt lifts its head from its paws and blinks at me.

And I should get going, but something… something inside me throbs. For some weird reason, I’m tethered to this bar—Flint’s, says the sign—like a fish caught on a line. What on earth?

As I stand there—a big, baffled statue with a backpack slung over one shoulder—a young woman ducks out of the bar’s back door, carrying a tray of drinks and a basket of fries. She weaves between tables, poking her tongue out at a giggling young kid, then sets her tray down among a small crowd of hikers. The collar of her black polo shirt has rucked up at the back, and her long, dark ponytail has gone frizzy from the heat. She’s tall and athletic, and her tan skin is flushed in the sunshine.

God damn.

Forget marching up to Rowan’s cabin for that promised shower and beer. Forget my aching muscles and dry throat and the headache pulsing in my temples. Forget the stares from this crowd, too—even the little kid pointing and asking his dad about giants.

There’s nothing and no one in this world worth thinking about except this server. Holy shit. Who knew angels came dressed in baggy polo shirts and denim shorts?

Not sure how long I stand and stare. Could be minutes; could be a geological age. All I know is I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t swallow, can’t do anything except keep my eyes glued to the server with a heat-frizzed ponytail. My boots are rooted to the ground, and my heavy backpack is long forgotten on my shoulder.

Who is she?

There’s a whole stretch of yard between us, and when she speaks to a customer, she’s too far away for me to hear. But lord, what I’d give to hear her voice—preferably husky and begging in my ear.

Bet Rowan knows who she is, because in a small town like this, everyone knows everyone. Bet he could tell me if she’s single, too.

Shit, I hope so.

My palms are damp as I scrub them against my t-shirt, and my heart slams against my ribs as I watch the server duck back inside the bar. With her gone, the sunshine dims. The light is less golden, the breeze cools, and the pounding rock music grates against my ear drums.

Still can’t move. Need to see her again, even if it means standing here for hours.

Have I lost my mind?

Then—she’s back, carrying another tray of drinks through the doorway, and suddenly everything’s bright and warm again. The music sounds good, fading unobtrusively into the background, and this is the most beautiful day. Strings of outdoor lights flicker to life around the yard, swagged above the bench tables, and the scent of pine carries on the breeze.

When she walks past a dog, it perks up and wags its tail hopefully. Most relatable thing I’ve ever seen. And after the server drops off the drinks to the bikers, she comes back to the dog on her way inside, crouching down to scratch behind its furry ears.

Well. I’ve never been jealous of a mutt before, but there’s a first time for everything.

As she stands back up, the server catches me staring. Of course she does. I’m a lumbering beast of a man, frozen in place and staring right at her, and it’s a wonder it’s taken her this long to spot me over the crowd.

Still, as her eyes round in alarm, the back of my neck prickles. A bug whines near my ear, and I swat at it, my throat dry.

She’s scared of me. Of course she is.

Because I’m acting like a creep.

Shit.

The woman’s lips part like she’s gonna say something to me, even though we’re way too far apart to hear each other speak. And I guess I could try to lip read, but let’s face it, there’s nothing good coming my way right now. Not when she’s lookin’ all electrified with shock at the sight of me.

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