Page 13 of Mountain Protector

“No?”

“No.” His eyes hold mine, and the intensity in them makes it hard to breathe. “There’s nothing boring about you, Ruby.”

The way he says my name—like he’s tasting it—sends a shiver down my spine. I’m suddenly very aware of how close our hands are on the table, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him.

“You don’t know me,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.

“I’d like to.”

The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard.

I look down at my food, unsure how to respond. This is dangerous territory. Clay isn’t just some guy I can have a fling with and move on. He works for my dad. Getting involved would complicate everything.

But ugh, the way he looks at me makes me want to complicate everything.

“Tell me more about Montana,” I say instead, steering us back to safer ground. “What was it like growing up there?”

Clay accepts the change of subject with grace, telling me about endless summers spent fishing and hiking, winters with snow piled higher than the front door, the small-town dynamics that aren’t so different from Cooper Heights. As he talks, I find myself genuinely interested, picturing him as a boy with the same intense blue eyes but fewer shadows behind them.

I’m so caught up in his stories that I barely notice when Lainey drops off the check, giving me a thumbs-up behind Clay’s back that makes me roll my eyes.

“We should head back,” I say reluctantly, glancing at my watch. “I have a client at two.”

Clay nods and reaches for the check before I can even think about grabbing it.

“I’ve got this,” I insist, trying to snatch it from his hand.

He simply raises an eyebrow, holding the check just out of my reach. “Not happening.”

“Clay, seriously. This is my town, my diner, my friend. I’m paying.”

His expression doesn’t change as he pulls out his wallet. “Consider it a thank you for putting up with me following you around all day.”

“That’s literally your job,” I protest. “You don’t thank someone for letting you do your job.”

“Ruby,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, serious tone that somehow makes my name sound different. “Let me get this one.”

Something about the way he’s looking at me makes further argument feel pointless. It’s not about the money. It’s about something else I can’t quite name.

“Fine,” I relent with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m leaving the tip.”

As we walk back to the shop, I’m acutely aware of the decreased distance between us. He walks closer now, our arms occasionally brushing, and each contact sends little sparks across my skin. The cool autumn air does nothing to calm the heat building inside me.

I steal glances at his profile—the strong jaw, the slight crook in his nose that suggests it’s been broken at least once, the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. He’s the most alert, present person I’ve ever met, and there’s something incredibly attractive about that intensity.

“What?” he asks, catching me looking.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just... thanks for lunch. It was nice to get out of the shop for a bit.”

His smile is small but genuine. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

The way he says my name shouldn’t affect me this much. It’s just a name, for God’s sake. But in his mouth, it sounds like something precious.

Back at the shop, I check my appointment book while Clay does another perimeter check. My two o’clock client has texted to reschedule, which gives me unexpected free time.

“I need to grab some supplies from the storage room,” I tell Clay after checking my messages. “My afternoon client rescheduled.”

Clay nods, following me as I head toward the back of the shop. “I’ll give you a hand.”

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