Page 22 of Grumpy on the Mountain
"But you know him! You're friends!"
"We're friendly," she corrects. "There's a difference. Besides, this gives you a perfect excuse to see him again."
"I don't want to see him again!"
The lie comes out so fast and so vehemently that even Maisie looks skeptical.
"You don't?" Maisie asks, cocking her head. "But he's really nice. And he promised to build my treehouse. Please don't upset him."
"It's not that I don't want to see him," I backtrack quickly. "It's just..."
Maisie's adorable face falls, her lower lip jutting out in a pout that could probably end wars. Her big brown eyes go wide and watery as she clutches her treehouse drawing to her chest.
The look says it all:How could you not want to see the greatest man who ever lived?
Sienna folds her arms over her chest, eyebrows raised in that big-sister way that says 'don't you dare upset my daughter'.
"It's just..." I trail off, trapped between the two matching expressions of disappointment.
I look at Maisie's drawing again—the bearded stick figure towering over the smaller ones, all holding hands under what appears to be a tree with a tiny house in it. There's even a little sun in the corner with a smiley face. And sunglasses. The sun has got sunglasses on.
The entire universe is conspiring against me. First my car, then my keys, now this emotional blackmail from a six-year-old artist.
"Oh,fine."I sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'll call him. But I'm going to need to borrow your phone."
Sienna's triumphant smile is immediate. Maisie's face lights up like I've just promised her a puppy.
I survived syrup hair, kid interrogation, and a shower orgasm.
Calling Beau Callahan can’t be any worse.…
Right?
Chapter Six
Beau
There's a certain rhythm to splitting wood that soothes even the darkest of souls.
The strong lift of the axe, the whistle as it cuts through air, the satisfyingcrackwhen steel meets timber and the log surrenders to pure brutal force.
It's completely predictable. Controlled.
The opposite of whatever the fuck has been happening in my head for the past three days.
I bring the axe down harder this time, and another log breaks clean in two.
Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold mountain air kissing my bare chest. The snowstorm finally broke overnight, leaving behind a crystalline world of white that would be postcard-perfect if I was the type to send postcards.
Which I'm not.
Instead, I'm the type who spends three days snowed in, burning through his entire woodpile like an idiot, then ends up shirtless in twenty-degree weather because apparently my body runs hot when I'm thinking about things—and people—I shouldn't be.
People like Molly Jennings.
"Focus on the fucking wood," I mutter, adjusting the volume on the weathered speakers sitting on my workbench. Fast heavy metal rhythm blares louder, drowning out thoughts I don't want to entertain.
I slam the axe down again. Harder this time.
