Page 7 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Betty refills Molly's coffee cup. "Beau here is being modest. He can fix just about anything with an engine."
That's not entirely true. I can make temporary repairs in crisis situations because the military taught me how to keep vehicles running when lives depended on it. Not because I'm some mechanical savant.
Molly slides out of the booth and approaches cautiously, like I might bolt if she moves too quickly.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
Up close, I can see the cold has painted her cheeks pink. Her lips look soft, slightly pink and chapped as she approaches, and I catch myself staring at the gentle curve of her neck, my teeth clamping down as if I'm already imagining how good her skin would taste.
My gaze tracks lower to her hips, the kind made for a man's hands to grip. My blood surges hot, pounding in my ears, imagining how she would look bent over—
"I'm Molly. And I would really appreciate any help you can offer," she says, smiling up at me.
Fuck. I'm so screwed here.
Her voice is softer than I remember, but there's still that slight rasp that used to make me go quiet whenever she spoke, just so I could hear her better.
I scruff my beard, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket. "Fine. I'll take a look."
"Johnson's Auto won't open until Monday now," Betty adds, glancing at the worsening storm outside. "Storm's got everyone battened down."
"We can tow it," I grumble, already heading towards the door. "I've got chains in my truck."
Molly nods gratefully, skipping in behind me. "That would be amazing. Thank you."
She's wearing expensive boots, designer jeans with decorative tears that defeat their purpose and a watch that could probably pay off my property taxes for a year.
She's got all the hallmarks of my brother's world. Flashy, impractical, and designed to impress rather than endure.
"Storm's getting worse," I say, stepping outside. "Better check the damage now."
The blast of cold air as we step outside is almost a relief. I trudge through the deepening snow toward her car—a sleek sedan completely unsuited for mountain roads.
Molly scrambles to follow, and I resist the urge to help her in the snow. Proximity is dangerous.
She doesn't recognize me. Just help her and go home.
I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. To her, I'm just some mountain man offering assistance, not the brother of the man who broke her.
I pop the hood of Molly's car, and it takes me about thirty seconds to confirm what I already suspected.
Molly's standing beside me, shivering in a coat that was definitely designed for looking cute in urban coffee shops, not surviving actual winter. She's trying to peer over my shoulder at the engine like she might suddenly develop mechanical expertise through proximity.
"It's fucked," I announce, letting the hood slam shut.
"Um, excuse me?" Her eyes widen, those moss-green irises catching the dim light from the café.
"I said it'sfucked."
She blinks, snow gathering on her eyelashes. "That's... very technical of you."
Despite the freezing fucking cold, the situation of the gorgeous woman beside me, and the fact that I'm standing three feet away from a woman who used to star in most of my teenage fantasies… I almost smile.
Almost.
"Come on," I say, trudging back toward the café. "Nothing's getting fixed today."
She follows, slipping and sliding in those ridiculous boots like a newborn deer trying to figure out how legs work. I don't slow down, but I'm aware of every stumble, every little gasp when she catches herself.
