Page 3 of Moody Mountain Man
Cal
Annie Monroe is the last woman I should be working for.
She talks too much. Smiles too big. Smells like sugar and trouble. She kissed me once—out of nowhere, middle of a summer night, mouth soft and sure like she already knew what I’d taste like.
I kissed her back because I’m not a saint. Then I left, because I’m stupid.
And now, here I am, standing outside her café at five-fifty-eight in the morning with tile, tools, and an intense craving for coffee I didn’t make.
She opens the door before I can knock, wearing leggings, a loose sweatshirt, and bed hair that sends my mind spiraling to what it would be like to wake up with her every morning.
“You’re early,” she says.
“You’re up.”
“I’m always up.” She waves me in and hands me a mug. “Black. I remember.”
“Thanks.”
I step inside. It’s quiet, warm, and still smells like cinnamon despite the fire. The café is dark except for the kitchen, where she’s already prepped two trays of cinnamon rolls and pulled the ovens halfway to life.
“I stayed on the other side of the kitchen like you said,” she adds, as if I’m going to scold her. “Didn’t even breathe near the new outlet.”
“Good,” I say, setting my tile box down.
We work in silence at first. I pry off the scorched tiles while she rolls dough behind me. She hums softly—always humming, always moving—and every now and then she mutters something like “perfect rise” or “come on, baby,” which does things to me I don’t want to name.
I try not to watch her hips sway when she moves. I try not to think about how that kiss wrecked my sleep for three weeks straight.
No luck.
“You always get this quiet when you’re thinking?” she asks eventually.
“I’m working.”
“You’re brooding.”
“Same thing.”
She grins, dusting flour off her hands as she steps closer. “You used to be friendlier.”
“I used to avoid trouble.”
She leans against the prep table. “And now?”
“Now I lay tile and keep my head down.”
Her expression softens, just a little. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself, you know.”
I pause, hand wrapped around my notched trowel. “I’m not.”
She lets it go, which I both hate and appreciate.
“You going to the bonfire tonight?” she asks.
“No.”
“Shocking.”
