Page 95 of Grumpy on the Mountain
That's when I notice he's not just checking mirrors—he's scanning every vehicle we pass, memorizing license plates, positioning his truck so we have clear sight lines to multiple escape routes.
It's normal Beau behavior, but somehow… amplified.
"Beau," I say softly, reaching over to place my hand on his thigh. "Talk to me. What's really going on?"
For a moment, I think he might actually open up and tell me what's got him so on edge. But then we're pulling into the Mountain Rescue parking lot, and he's back to his silent, hypervigilant routine.
He parks in a spot that gives us clear views in multiple directions, kills the engine, and immediately starts scanning the lot like he's memorizing every vehicle and potential threat.
"Okay, this is officially weird," I announce. "You're acting like my personal Secret Service detail."
"Just making sure everything's secure," he says, already getting out of the truck.
But instead of our usual routine where he walks me to the door with a kiss and a promise to pick me up later, today he's coming inside.
Inside.
In three weeks of daily drop-offs, Beau Callahan has never once set foot in the Mountain Rescue headquarters.
He kisses me goodbye in the parking lot, watches until I'm safely through the door, then drives away to spend his day building gorgeous furniture and avoiding human interaction.
Because that's what Beau does. He avoids this place like if he gets too close, Jamie might materialize out of thin air and try to pull him back into a world he's spent years building fortress walls against.
The Mountain Rescue building represents everything he left behind. Jamie told me as much on my first day.
Being here is like a physical reminder of his military past, of all those moments when split-second decisions meant the difference between someone coming home or not.
No wonder he treats the parking lot like our designated transfer zone, a neutral territory where he can safely deposit me without crossing that invisible boundary into a life that echoes too closely with his old one, and until now, I've totally understood that.
"You know you don't have to escort me to my desk, right?" I say as his large hand finds the small of my back, fingers splaying possessively across my uniform shirt. "I've successfully navigated these twenty feet of sidewalk many times without incident."
"Humor me," he says, but there's something almost desperate in his voice.
The moment we push through the doors, every conversation in the operations room stops.
Every. Single. Conversation.
Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward us like we're the most fascinating thing to happen since someone invented tactical gear, and I hear whispered exchanges that sound suspiciously like amazed commentary on the hermit mountain man's unprecedented appearance inside the building.
"Is that Beau Callahan?"someone whispers.
"He never comes inside,"adds another voice.
"Wonder what's got him all worked up."
Beau either doesn't hear the gossip or doesn't care, because he's steering me toward my desk with focused determination.
"This is really not necessary," I mutter, feeling heat creep up my neck as more heads turn to watch our progress across the room. "People are staring, Beau."
"Let them stare," he replies, his hand never leaving my back.
When we reach my workspace, Beau doesn't just kiss me goodbye and leave like a normal person dropping off his girlfriend at her perfectly safe office job.
Instead, he adjusts my chair like I'm incapable of basic furniture management, checks my sight lines to the exits like he's establishing some kind of defensive perimeter, and generally behaves like he's setting up a military command post instead of delivering me to work.
"Beau," I say firmly, "I honestly have no idea what's going on with you today, but I'm fine. This is Mountain Rescue, not a war zone. I'm fine. You're fine. And the world is fine."
"I know," he says, but his eyes are still scanning the room like he's cataloging my colleagues as potential threats.
