Page 6 of Broken on the Mountain
She moves ahead of me, shoulders squared beneath that absurdly expensive coat, her spine rigid as if bracing for combat rather than Betty's world-famous blueberry pancakes.
The door closes behind me, and I pause to take in the smell of sizzling bacon and maple syrup. Yet all I get is the smell of last night.
Her vanilla shampoo. Her soft warm skin.
All of it now tangled with the woodsy scent ofmy flannel shirtpeeking out beneath her collar. Proof that the memory of her moaning my name against the wall wasn’t some lonely fantasy conjured by too much whiskey.
Christ, did that really happen?
I’ve had one-night stands before, but they never stayed for breakfast. Never lingered long enough for sunlight to catch the gold in their hair, or for me to notice the nervous flutter in their throat when they commence their walk of shame away from my apartment.
It's odd, because…
Good things don’t stick to guys like me. The military washout. The kid whose mom sent one lousy postcard from Berlin, just ‘Hope you’re well’ scribbled above a generic skyline, before vanishing like I was a mistake she’d packed away with her winter coats.
I've learned that too good never lasts… so I know how this ends. With whispered apologies and taillights disappearing down the mountain road.
"Morning, Betty!" I call out over the clatter of plates and the hiss of the espresso machine. I help Piper out of her coat and swallow the lump in my throat when she smoothes my shirt over her perfect curves.
Betty Simmons appears like the town's resident fairy godmother, her silver curls pinned back with a pencil, flour dusting her apron like she's been here all night.
Her eyes land on Piper, then me, then back to Piper's borrowed flannel.
"Well now," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. A slow, knowing smile spreads across her rosy cheeks. "Looks like someone found her way up the fire escape after all."
Piper's cheeks start to glow. "I—it's not—"
"Window booth's free," Betty interrupts, already steering us through the maze of mismatched tables. "Best view for the newly…"
Betty looks at me with a question on her lips.
"Acquainted," I say, glancing at Piper who looks mortified.
Betty chuckles and shakes her head. "Well, alright. I'll get you two some drinks to toast to new... friendships."
Piper’s fingers brush mine as we slide into the booth. My heart skips, the warmth of her touch more comforting than any cup of coffee.
But there's no time to dwell on what all of this is, what it might mean. Because Etta and Mabel, Stone River gossip queens, materialize beside our booth before we even settle in.
Etta peers over her cat-eye glasses, sharp as a hawk spotting prey. Mabel clutches a Tupperware container like a security blanket, her sweet face radiating innocent curiosity that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
"Morning, ladies," I say, nudging Piper to scoot along.
"We were just discussing the special," Etta announces, leaning her elbows on the edge of her table. "I heard Betty's making heart-shaped pancakes today."
"For luck," Mabel adds, nodding earnestly. "They're scientifically proven to increase romantic outcomes by at least…" She glances at Etta.
"Fifty percent," Etta finishes smoothly. "Minimum."
Piper stares at them, her blue eyes wide. "Is that an actual statistic?"
"Stone River Mountain bylaws, dear," Etta says, reaching across to pat Piper's hand. "Section four, subsection romance. Amended last night."
Before Piper can process that, Betty slides two steaming mugs of hot chocolate onto our table.
"Thanks Betty," I groan, rubbing my hands together gleefully. Piper laughs at my excitement but I shrug it off. "Shut up. It's the best damn hot chocolate in the world. You'll see."
Mountains of whipped cream tower over the rims, dusted with chocolate sprinkles and crowned with a single, perfectpeppermint stick. It's the kind of decadence that can only be found at Bear Paw Café.
