Page 7 of How to Kiss a Mountain Man

“Same.”

We walk toward the checkout lanes together, our arms nearly touching. Neither of us speaks. I try not to, but I keep stealingglances over at her as we walk. She glances over at me too, and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she looks away.

She moves to the first open register, unloading her basket. When she finishes paying, she turns back to me with a genuine smile. “Bye, Griffin.”

I watch her walk away, trying not to focus too much on her gorgeous curves.

The cashier is in the middle of scanning my items when I notice a card on the floor near the credit card reader. It’s a library card with Jordana’s name on it. It must have slipped from her wallet. As soon as I’m done paying for my groceries, I hurry outside, searching the parking lot for any trace of her. But she’s already gone.

After driving around Fairhope aimlessly for a few minutes, I remember that Jordana lives above her shop. I drive straight there, park Betty in front, and climb the narrow stairs to her door, her library card clutched in my hand. My knuckles barely knock against Jordana’s door before she opens it.

“Griffin?” she says, blinking in surprise.

“You dropped this at the store,” I explain, holding out her library card.

Her face lights up. “Oh my God, thank you. This is as important to me as my credit cards.” She takes it from my hand, then hesitates. “Would you like some tea before you head back up the mountain?”

I should say no. Being alone with her feels…risky. But what comes out is, “Sure.”

Her apartment surprises me. Exposed brick walls frame windows overlooking Main Street, and potted plants thrive on every available surface. Several quilts are draped over comfortable-looking furniture, and she has a shelf stuffed full of books. It’s a stark contrast to the industrial workspace below—this space is purely Jordana, and I find myself wanting to understand every detail of it.

“Your place is nice,” I say.

“Thanks.” She moves to her kitchen, opening cabinets. “What kind of tea do you like?”

“I don’t really know much about tea.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m obsessed with it.” She opens a cabinet packed with colorful tins. “I love trying new ones.”

One catches my attention—something with ginger and citrus. When I point it out, she grins. “Perfect choice. That one’s new, actually. Haven’t even opened it yet.” She reaches for a drawer, presumably for scissors, then frowns. “Shoot. Where did I put them?”

“Here.” I pull out my pocketknife. The moment I flip it open, Jordana flinches and steps back.

The air changes instantly. My chest tightens as realization hits—she knows the rumors. They’ve made her afraid of me. All the warmth of the past few minutes evaporates.

I cut the seal on the tea tin and close the knife, slipping it back into my pocket.

“I’m sorry,” Jordana says, pink coloring her cheeks. “That was—I didn’t mean to?—”

“You’ve heard the stories about me,” I say, the words bitter in my mouth.

She hesitates, then nods. “People talk.”

“And you’ve been wondering if those stories are true.”

“Yes.” Her honesty cuts deeper than a lie would have. “But I also know gossip isn’t reliable.”

“They’re not true. Any of them.” I grip the edge of her counter, needing the stability. “That first day I came to Fairhope, I’d just finished a difficult call with one of my veterans. Usually I can keep their struggles separate from my own, but this time...” I draw in a breath. “It dragged up memories from my service. Before I knew what was happening, I was having an anxiety attack in the middle of Main Street.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes.

“I knocked over a cafe table. Yelled at people who were just trying to help. Not my finest moment.” The shame still burns. “After that, the rumors started. They got bigger, more elaborate. Completely disconnected from reality.”

“Griffin.” Her voice carries a gentleness I don’t deserve. “I’m so sorry. Both for what happened that day, and for how unfairly people have treated you since. It makes me angry that Fairhope would shun you like that.”

“It is what it is,” I say. But her defense of me also settles a feeling in my chest.

“No.” The firmness in her tone surprises me. “It can be different. People just need to see the real you.”

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