Page 39 of Broken on the Mountain
"Shut up."
"Get out of here, Morrison," Jamie mumbles, suddenly finding his voice. "Early minute is on me. Forget what these jerks are saying, it's nice to see a smile on your face. Enjoy your weekend, soldier."
Soldier. If only.
"Thanks, Boss." I grab my jacket, drain the last of Martha's coffee, and head for the door.
I get in my truck and check the clock.
I've got stuff to sort out before Piper arrives. Stuff to make sure this weekend is everything it needs to be. Stuff to make sure she falls in love with this place all over again.
Lucky for me, Piper wanted to let Brooke pick her up from the airport so she at least got to see her once this weekend.
She's right. I'm totally stealing her for myself. She's not moving out of my sight.
Or out of my bed.
Driving across town in a rush, I slam the door of my truck and run up the stairs at The Bear Paw café. As always, it smells like heaven when I push through the door.
Behind the counter, Betty's already holding up a brown paper bag before the bell stops jingling.
"Yeah, yeah. I got your order, dear." Betty smiles and winks. "Couples' pot pie. Extra crust hearts. Warm it in the oven, but don't burn it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Also…" She leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that probably still carries across the street where Etta and Mabel are sitting on their favorite chair, knitting some new beanies. "Besure to kiss her before you feed her. Priorities are important to us ladies. No matter how serious this may or may not be."
My face heats. "Noted. Thanks, Betty."
"Shall I bag up two cinnamon rolls for tomorrow morning?"
Naked breakfast in bed? Yes, please.
The cheesy grin on my face gives me away. "You know me too well."
"I know men likeyoutoo well, honey." She winks, adds the pastry box to my bag. "Now get out of here before I start crying into the whipped cream."
Back at the apartment, I move like a man possessed.
I lay out fresh sheets on the bed. The good ones I bought this week in a fit of optimism and pure distraction.
In the kitchen, I clean Piper's favorite mug that I refused to wash all week, positioning it by the kettle. The shower is stocked with the fancy shampoo and body wash Imayhave researched online during my lunch breaks this week, and finally, I lay out a newly washed and folded flannel shirt across the foot of the bed. Her pajamas for the weekend.
I step back, survey my work with my hands on my hips.
Then, I laugh at myself.
Fuck. What the hell is happening to me?
I'm acting like she's moving in instead of just visiting for the weekend. With a heavy sigh, I sink down on the edge of the bed, flannel soft under my palm.
Weekends only. No strings. No feelings.
Those were the rules. The ones I agreed to. The ones I signed on a napkin like some kind of idiot who thought he could actually follow them.
But here I am, buying fancy soap and planning a naked breakfast in bed and folding flannel like it's some kind of sacred ritual.
Because deep down, maybe if I can make damn sure everything's perfect, she'll want to stay a little longer. Maybe if I give her enough reasons, she won't get on that plane Sunday night.
