Page 70 of Grumpy on the Mountain
"Are those military photos?" she asks, nodding toward the bookshelf where I keep the few pictures I can stand to look at.
Fuck.
I never should have left those out. Out of the very few people who have stepped inside my home, most of them have been too polite to ask, or too intimidated by my general demeanor to push for details.
But Sienna acts like we're family now.
And apparently that means the normal social barriers don't apply.
"Beau served overseas," Molly says casually, like it's just another piece of information about me instead of the thing that broke me into pieces. "Three tours, right?"
She looks at me for confirmation, and I manage a nod.
How does she know that? Did I tell her last night?
"He was Special Forces," she continues.
There's something in her voice that makes me look at her sharply. Not pity. Not the careful sympathy people usually wear when military service comes up.
Just... acceptance.
Like it's part of who I am, not something that needs to be fixed or explained away.
"That explains the over the top awareness," Sienna murmurs. "The way you positioned yourself with your back to the wall, eyes on all the exits."
She noticed that?
"And the way you grabbed that broom like it was a weapon," Molly adds with a grin that takes the sting out of the observation. "Very impressive tactical thinking. I'm sure dust bunnies everywhere are terrified of you now."
Despite everything—the tension, the memories, the familiar ache in my chest when my service comes up—I almost smile.
Almost.
"Coffee's getting cold," I mutter, settling back into my chair.
But Molly's not done talking, apparently. She pulls out her phone, snapping a picture of the breakfast spread, then another of the view through the window.
"This is going on my Instagram story," she announces. "With the caption 'breakfast made by the most amazing man in the world.'"
"Molly, I don't think anyone needs to see that."
"Too late," she says, typing rapidly. "Already posted. Though I should probably warn you, my followers are going to want to know where they can find their own mountain man who cooks like this."
The possessive growl that rises in my chest surprises me. "They can't."
We're halfway through breakfast when Sienna brings up the elephant in the room.
"So," she says, cutting her bacon with surgical precision. "About tomorrow. David's coming home, and I'm throwing him a welcome back BBQ. The whole town's going to show up." Shelooks at me directly. "Will you come down and help? We could use those strong arms for moving tables and setting up the tent."
My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
The familiar panic rises in my chest—the thought of spending hours surrounded by people, making small talk, pretending to be normal. Smiling and nodding and beingcivilwhen all I've ever done in moments like this is retreat back up here where it's quiet and safe and no one expects anything from me.
"Oh, I don't think so. I've got… stuff… to handle up here," I say automatically, the same deflection I've been using for three years.
But even as the words leave my mouth, my eyes drift to the window. To the pile of lumber I've been collecting for months, stacked neatly beside my workshop.
Maisie's treehouse.
