Page 10 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Through the sidemirror, I watch him moving, muscles flexing beneath his flannel as he secures chains to my poor, deceasedvehicle. I press my thighs together and blame the sudden warmth on the truck's clearly excellent heating system.
Good lord, they do not make men like this in the city.
I don't know what it is about this man, but I can't tear my eyes away from him.
I just love how his beard has streaks of gray that should not be sexy but somehow are. And the crinkled weather lines around his eyes speak of a life actuallylived,instead of being preserved in boutique moisturizers and facial treatments.
The rugged man is all hard angles and rough edges. Nothing like the polished, manicured men I'm used to dating. And his size... there's something primal about how much space he takes up, how his shoulders strain against his shirt, how his thighs flex as I watch him work around this enormous truck.
He's pure man. Right down to the vehicle he drives.
When Beau finally slides into the driver's seat, he brings a blast of cold air and tiny snowflakes that melt instantly in his dark beard. The cab suddenly feels much smaller, like the oxygen has been replaced with his presence.
He plants his foot on the gas, revving the engine and the entire chassis rumbles to life with a deep, satisfied purr.
"Thank you so much for doing this," I say, filling the silence as he navigates carefully through the worsening storm. "Seriously, you're saving my life. I don't know what I would've—"
He cuts me off with a grunt, eyes never leaving the road. "Just doing what anyone would do."
I can't help the laugh that escapes me.
"Pretty sure 'anyone' wouldn't haul my disaster of a car through a blizzard, but okay, Mountain Man. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
His jaw tightens, but I swear I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the truck moving steadily through snow that's now piling up in earnest.
Sinking back in the warmth of the seat, I steal glances at his face. There's something naggingly familiar about him that I can't quite place.
"So," I venture, "have you lived in Stone River long?"
He shrugs those big round shoulders. "Long enough."
"It seems nice. Picturesque. Like a Christmas card or something," I try again.
"Mmm." His eyes never leave the road.
"Do you like it here? I mean, compared to other places?"
"It's quiet.Usually."
"I've always been more of a city girl myself, but I can see the appeal of—"
He cuts me off with a sideways glance that's so intense it actually makes my words die in my throat. It's not angry, exactly. It's concentrated.Penetrating.
"Chatty, aren't you?"
This time I definitely see his lips quirk. "No."
I can't help but feel like we're trapped in our own private snow globe. Just me, my disaster life and this gorgeous grump who clearly wishes I'd stop talking but keeps stealing glances at me when he thinks I won't notice.
Soon enough, we pull up to a weathered building with closed garage doors and a neon "CLOSED" sign glowing through the snow.
"Wait here," he orders, and before I can respond, he's out in the storm again, unhooking my car with the same efficient movements.
I peer outside at stacks of tires that are piled haphazardly against one wall, partially covered in white powder, and an ancient tow truck that sits abandoned in the lot, looking like it might need as much help as my car.
A collection of rusty parts and metal signs advertising motor oil brands from decades past give the place a time-capsule feel, as if we've driven right into the 1950s.
