Page 65 of Broken on the Mountain
The barista slides my latte across the counter without a word, already checking the clock again. Forty-seven long-ass minutes until his shift ends, if I'm reading that longing glance correctly.
"How's your day been?" I ask, bright and genuine.
He blinks at me like I've asked him to solve world hunger. "Busy."
That's it. One word. No smile. He's already turning to the next customer.
I grab my cup and head for the door, holding it open for a dad wrestling a stroller through the narrow frame. "Cute baby," I offer.
He grunts and doesn't look up.
A woman in a gorgeous silk scarf brushes past. "Love your scarf," I tell her.
She doesn't even break stride.
Copy that, Stone River this is not.
At Bear Paw Café, Betty would've asked about my weekend, offered me cherry pie, and somehow known I needed extra whipped cream before I did. Etta and Mabel would've stopped me on the street to ask about Chase, eyes twinkling with matchmaking glee.
Here, in this enormous city, I can bring the warmth—I canbethe warmth—but it doesn't echo back.
It just gets swallowed by the noise and the rush and the thousand people too busy checking their phones to see each other.
I fish in my bag for the mini packet of gummy bears Chase tucked into my suitcase. There are only three left. I've been trying to ration them like a survivalist hoarding supplies, but failing miserably.
One red bear sits in my palm, translucent and perfect.
I almost pop it in my mouth, then pause.No.I'll save this one for after the fitting.
IfI survive.
I tuck it back into the bag's inner pocket, zip it carefully, and square my shoulders.
"Right. Big girl boots on and social boundaries up. Gown fitting next."
I take my latte and head down the block toward the boutique where Mom's already waiting, my chin up, smile ready, and spine stiffened.
Just like the perfect Whitman daughter should be.
"You're late," Mom says without looking up from her phone.
I check my watch. I'm three minutes early.
"Traffic," I lie smoothly, because that's what we do in this family. Smooth lies that keep the peace.
"Let's get inside. Monique is waiting." Mom gestures toward the seamstress, a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair and warm brown eyes. She actually smiles when we walk in.
The boutique smells like roses, and soft instrumental music plays at a volume designed to soothe wealthy nerves while emptying their wallets.
Mom moves quickly to claim the largest fitting room. She stands beside a rolling rack draped with a garment bag, scrolling through her phone with one perfectly manicured hand, pointing her orders with the other.
"We'll do the Valentino. I want her hair up for the gala—classic chignon, nothing trendy. Minimalist jewelry. Diamond studs, simple bracelet to complement. Escort colors are TBD, but I'm working on it."
"Mother—"
"Maxwell has expressed interest in attending with you, but I told him you'd need to confirm your schedule." She finallyglances up, her gaze sweeping over me for the first time. "Oh,Piper. You look ghastly. Are you getting enough sleep?"
Only when I'm wrapped around a mountain man who just made me scream his name.
