Page 11 of Mountain Protector

“You know what I mean.” I gesture vaguely at all of him—the military-precise haircut, the way he scanned the room when we entered, the scars that hint at a life far more dangerous than anything Cooper Heights could offer. “You’re not exactly small-town material.”

He picks up a menu, but his eyes stay on mine. “Maybe I got tired of big places with bigger problems.”

“So you just randomly picked our little dot on the map?”

“Not randomly.” He sets the menu down. “I did my research. Cooper Heights is pretty safe, has good proximity to nature, and...” he pauses, a hint of something softer crossing his face, “it reminded me of where I grew up.”

“Where was that?”

“Small town in Montana. Population even smaller than here.” His fingers tap lightly on the table. “My dad was the local sheriff. Mom taught at the elementary school.”

I try to picture a younger Clay, running through Montana wilderness, and the image comes surprisingly easily. “So you were a small-town boy before whatever turned you into...” I gesture at him again.

“Into what?” There’s amusement in his eyes now.

“Into whatever you are now.”

I’m not giving him the satisfaction of saying it out loud—that he looks like the human embodiment of danger and sex wrapped in a tactical package.

His smile widens slightly. “I was in the military. Ten years. Special forces for the last four.”

That explains the way he moves, the constant awareness, the scars I’ve been trying not to stare at—the one at his temple, another peeking from beneath his collar. I force myself to look at my menu instead of wondering where else his body might be marked.

“Special forces,” I repeat, finding myself leaning forward slightly. “I bet that wasn’t quiet at all.”

“It had its moments.” His voice drops a notch, and something in his tone tells me those moments weren’t the good kind. “But that’s behind me now.”

“And now you’re babysitting tattoo artists in small towns.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “Quite the career change.”

“I’m not babysitting you, Ruby. I’m protecting you.”

Before I can respond, a familiar voice interrupts us.

“Well, well, well. Ruby Tuesday bringing a man to my diner? Mark it on the calendar, folks.”

I look up to see Lainey standing beside our table. Her straight blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her blue eyes sparkle with mischief. She’s wearing her usual uniform of jeans and a Piney Creek Diner t-shirt, and a pen is tucked behind her ear.

“Clay, this is Lainey, owner of this fine establishment and professional pain in my ass since third grade. Lainey, this is Clay. He’s working with me temporarily.”

Lainey’s eyebrows shoot up at “working with me,” and I know I’ll be getting twenty questions later.

“Nice to meet you, Clay. Any friend of Ruby’s is a friend of mine.” She gives him an appraising look that’s about as subtle as a neon sign. “What can I get you two today?”

Clay orders a burger and coffee, and I go for my usual grilled cheese and tomato soup. As Lainey walks away, she throws me a look over her shoulder that clearly says “we’ll talk later.”

“Friend since third grade, huh?” Clay asks once she’s gone. “That’s a long time.”

“She’s the closest thing to family I have here.”

“It’s good to have people like that. People who know the real you.”

“And who knows the real you, Clay?” I counter, desperate to shift focus back to him. “You’ve been in town, what, a month? Made any friends besides your gun collection?”

He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. It makes him look younger, less guarded. Something flutters in my chest at the sight.

“I’m not much of a people person,” he admits. “But I’m getting to know a few folks. The guys at the gym. The barista at that coffee shop on Main who no longer looks terrified when I walk in.”

I giggle. “You do have a bit of a scary vibe going on.”

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