Page 81 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Suddenly, I've got this future that looks brighter than anything I've ever imagined.
It's perfect.
Too perfect.
The thought creeps in like poison, spreading through my chest until I can barely breathe. Nothing in my life has ever worked out this well.
Which means something's going to destroy it.
That's how it works for men like me. We don't get happy endings. We don't get the girl and the future and the perfect life. We get broken, and we break others, and eventually everything we touch turns to ash.
Molly shifts in her sleep, making a soft sound that's too sweet and innocent for a dark soul like me, but my arm tightens around her involuntarily, like I can't afford to let go.
Don't think like that,I tell myself.Don't let those demons back in.
But they won't stop. They never do.
Deep in my chest, a familiar ache is spreading. The same one I felt in Afghanistan when everything went sideways. The same one I felt when I came home and realized I didn't fit anywhere anymore.
The ache that tells me I'm about to lose everything that matters.
Again.
In my experience, when things seem too good to be true, it's because they are. And this—Molly, this life, this happiness I feel inside my heart—is definitely too good to be true.
I close my eyes and try to focus on her breathing, on the warmth of her body, on the fact that she's here.
For now.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly
I wake up to the sound of a shocking clattering noise coming from the kitchen.
At least the most incredible smell drifting through the cabin makes up for the rude awakening.
For a moment, I just lie there in Beau's massive bed, wrapped in flannel sheets that smell like him, listening to the domestic sounds of someone making breakfast.
And I bet he's not just heating up leftovers or pouring cereal. He'd be actuallycooking. The kind that involves multiple pans and what sounds suspiciously like fresh fruit being chopped.
God, I love this man.
I pad to the kitchen in one of his shirts, my bare feet silent on the wide-plank floors, and stop dead in the doorway.
Beau stands at the stove in jeans and a t-shirt that clings to every muscle, his hair still damp from a shower. I must haveslept well last night, because I hadn't heard a damn thing until the pan bashing that startled me awake.
Beau is flipping what appears to be the most perfect pancakes in the history of mankind. But that's not what makes my jaw drop.
It's the dining table he's set out already.
He's set it like we're dining at a five-star resort on some tropical island. There are plates, cloth napkins, actual silverware instead of the mismatched collection we usually use.
In the center sits a platter of fresh fruit—strawberries, blueberries, sliced oranges—arranged so artfully it's like it all belongs in a magazine. Beside the platter, a basket covered with a pristine white cloth sits beside glass pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Right. So apparently my boyfriend is some kind of domestic wizard when he puts his mind to it.
"Morning, beautiful," he says without turning around, like he has some kind of sixth sense for when I'm watching him. "Sleep okay?"
