by Nicole Snow
Mozart yowls, tail fluffed for war, and he bats at Momo’s nose before retreating from snapping canine jaws and darts at the kid.
Alaska turns, one hand outstretched, practically in slow-mo.
Mozart hits the kid’s legs.
And I’m one second too late to stop the boy from tangling his feet in Mozart’s bulk, tumbling backward, and plowing into my table full of fragile souvenirs.
If you’ve never seen your life flash before your eyes, try watching a preteen boy’s bony butt hit a circular glass table at just the right angle to tip it up like a seesaw, sending nearly five dozen mugs soaring into the air like they’ve just been catapulted.
Yep.
Welcome to Heart’s Edge, Montana, a magnet for chaos.
Explosions, fires, and all the bad juju. But even if we’ve had everything here but the seven biblical plagues...
I don’t think anyone in the café expects the ceramic hailstorm.
People vacate the tables around the crashing impacts faster than you can say oh, shit.
Faster than I can say it, really, though you can bet it’s popping out of my mouth over and over again as I dive through the barrage, trying to get to the kid.
Mugs come smashing down everywhere, exploding like little bombs of sharp-edged shrapnel, but right now I’m less worried about my investment and more about protecting the skinny body careening toward the starbursts of jagged dagger pieces littering the floor.
After this, I’ve really gotta rethink my pet policy.
I grab for the boy just as he’s about to hit the floor, hooking my arm around his waist and slinging him against me as I twirl.
There’s no way I can stop us both from falling, but at least I can take the brunt of it.
I know it’s going to hurt.
I don’t care.
I just brace, pinch my eyes shut, and prepare for a fractured elbow, only hoping a ceramic blade doesn’t pierce a vital organ.
But when something hits me, it’s not the stabby mug fragments.
It’s a brawny arm, twined around my waist like a steel cable, yanking me away from the floor so hard it rips the breath out of me.
My eyes fly open.
Alaska.
He’s grabbing even as his knees hit the floor, bowing forward and wrapping me in his shield of a body until I’m cocooned in him and the kid gets cocooned in me.
Holy hell.
I’ve never felt so surrounded by pure body heat before.
I stare up into his shockingly calm canyon eyes with my heart on fire.
My breath comes in rapid shudders while the debris settles, the last of it bouncing off his broad back before hitting the floor and bursting apart in puffs of porcelain powder and shiny marbles.
It’s been a storm of noise. The sudden silence feels like a gunshot.
Everyone’s staring, frozen around us—except Mitch, who’s got Momo by the leash, fighting to wrangle the boxer under control and dragging the excited dog outside as gently as possible.
Mozart’s left the crime scene.
Typical.
But I’m not looking for the cat.
I’m looking up at the Everest of a man holding me in his arms, wondering why I feel like I’ve just been lit with a triple espresso, lashing my blood into an electric rush.
“You okay?” he rumbles breathlessly.
God. Am I?
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or his son, and I’m suddenly too freaked to answer. Especially when I realize I’m gripping the boy like he’ll break if I don’t hold him together.
With a startled sound, I relax my grip and yank my hands back.
But he’s got his arms wrapped in a chokehold around my neck, his face buried in my shoulder.
Something goes soft and weird inside me.
I never had any younger siblings, and my family’s so scattered and thinned out. Even Ember Caldwell, my cousin, is someone I only got to know better later in life...so I’ve never known what it’s like to have a child clinging on for comfort.
It gets me all worried and warm—and after a tentative look at Alaska, I rest a hand on the kid’s back.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re not hurt, are you? It’s okay. The Great Eruption’s over. Think we might’ve bothered the Yellowstone Caldera, though.”
There’s a sniffle.
Then a muffled voice, miserable and soft. “...but I...I broke your stuff. You’re not mad?”
“No, I...” I pause.
Technically, I guess I should be mad, huh? I mean, I don’t have that much disposable income, and a major profit margin just crash-landed on the floor. I’m just relieved everyone’s okay. “Do I look mad, kiddo? What’s your name?”
“Eli,” he mumbles.
“Eli,” I correct myself, and can’t help smiling.
Never mind how Alaska’s still holding me, almost keeping me locked in a stereotypical damsel-in-distress save pose.
Or that the entire shop’s looking at us.
Concert over. Even if Peace turned into the hybrid reincarnation of Elvis and Aretha Franklin, she couldn’t have kept the crowd’s attention through the flying mug drama.
Now there’s an upset kid craned against me, and I’ll worry about the rest later.
Eli lifts his head slowly. Underneath the mess of hair—he’s doing that feathery forward-swept hair helmet thing that was popular ten years ago—he’s got deep walnut eyes. Just like his dad, and they’re wide and wet and mournful now, heavy with guilt.
“I’m not mad,” I whisper. “Promise.”
“Y-yeah?”
“They’re just mugs,” I say, and keep my smile, hoping it’s reassuring. “No one got hurt, and that’s all that matters.”
“Elijah,” Alaska murmurs—coaxing, gentle, but firm. “What do we say?”
“I...I’m sorry, ma’am.” Eli rubs at his eyes. “And I...” He looks around, then, his eyes bleak as they widen with horror. “Um, I don’t know if my allowance is enough to pay for all this.”
“You’ll be working it off for the rest of your natural life. Starting with helping me clean up right now,” Alaska counters dryly before those walnut eyes sweep to me.
I tell myself my heart’s just flouncing because I narrowly escaped dying in a mug deluge.
“How much for the damage?” he asks.
“Er.” My face heats like I’m standing over a vat of roasting beans in July. “Could I maybe talk about this on my feet?”
Alaska blinks.
He clears his throat a little too loudly and obviously, harumphing like some giant bear. It makes Eli giggle, peeking at his father from under his hair with a slow, teasing grin spreading on his lips.
“You gonna carry us both like babies, Dad?” Then he turns that grin on me. “He’s strong enough, y’know. I once saw him pick up a whole—”
“That’s enough,” Alaska says gruffly, ruffling Elijah’s hair with one hand.
With the other, he hefts me up until I find my feet on the ground. That’s when I let Eli down and steady him so we’re all standing around awkwardly in the ruins of what used to be my cute little mug tower.
Welp.
Guess there was a reason for that imminent spider feeling that’s been churning in my belly like a runaway train for weeks.
Good luck is a mirage.
Fool’s gold, plain and simple.
Raking my hair back, I twist my lips, tallying up what I spent on this—not just the invoice cost of the mugs, but also the table with the giant crack down the middle, the floorboards I just replaced after those pricks who were after my best friend Libby scratched the whole place up. And now there’s a bunch of gouges in the freshly laid honey-toned ash wood.
Yikes.
I’m not trying to take this guy for every penny when he’s such a gentleman, but I just don’t have the cash to cover this. If he doesn’t mind helping out, then I’ll gratefully take it.
I can’t lose the business.
I can’t.
>
No one wants to come to a grubby, dingy coffee shop with splintered-up floorboards, even if I’m the only real coffee game in town besides the diner.
Opening my mouth, I turn back to Alaska—only for all the blood that was rushing through me to practically drain right out as I see the wet, dark cascade running down the leg of his jeans.
Blood.
There’s a rip in his denim. A shard of ceramic embedded just below his kneecap, bristling hair and swarthy skin showing past the torn, blood-soaked fabric.
Dear God.
And he’s just standing there looking at me curiously like he doesn’t feel it.
“Um.” I stare at his leg. “Do you need a doctor?”
“Huh?” He looks down, blinking, then frowns and bends to pluck the shard out like it’s nothing but a pesky mosquito.
I have to look away, wincing.
But when I turn back, he’s dropping the bloodied shard on the ground and peeling back the ripped denim to get a better look at the pinkish gash in his flesh.
“Nah. Looks worse than it is. Nicked an artery, I guess, so that’s why it’s bleeding like a faucet. I hardly feel it,” he growls warmly.
I squint at him. “You sure you’re not just doing the man thing?”
He surprises me with a hearty, booming laugh, deep and rolling like all the walls of my heart collapsing in a tumble of boulders.
Crap.
Crap.
Also, crap.
I’m not supposed to be noticing how handsome he is.
I still value my life, after all.
“I’m fine. I promise,” he says. Those mahogany eyes sizzle, and he looks at me like he already knows me and cares that I might be worried about him. “You don’t have a personal injury lawsuit on your hands, Miss...it’s Felicity, right?”
“Um. Yes. But no! That’s not what I’m worried about. I just...would you at least let me clean that up so you don’t get an infection?” I gesture faintly to the corridor in the back, leading to my office. “I’ve got a first aid kit back there. We can talk about the damages, too.”
He considers me thoughtfully, then nods with an amused rumble. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?” My eyebrows lift.
“You tell this one where he’ll find the broom closet.” He jerks a thumb at Eli.
“Hey!” Eli thrusts his lower lip out. “Dad!”
“No Dad,” Alaska says, even if the twitch of his lip says he’s trying not to laugh. “You sweep. I go let the pretty lady bandage me up and bail your butt out. That’s the deal.”
Nope.
I’m not blushing because he called me pretty lady.
Not at all.
Though I’m definitely glad for the excuse to jet as I duck into the back and grab a broom and industrial-sized dustpan, then march them back out for Eli.
“Careful,” I say. “It’s almost taller than you.”
He sticks his tongue out playfully. “Dad says I’m in my growth phase. I’m only twelve. I’ll get bigger.”
“Dad says less trying to be cute to avoid work, and more sweeping, boy.” Alaska ruffles his son’s hair with clear affection, making Eli grin before tossing his head my way. “C’mon. Let’s talk and maybe after I’ll grab a drink. I hear the owner makes a pretty good cold brew.”
“Sure brew!” I chirp. “Sure do, I mean. Uh, you knew that.”
When did I get so tongue-tied? And where’s my awkward turtle trophy?
Okay. Right. My office.
It’s just a few minutes.
It’s just being stuck in a teeny, enclosed space with the man I’ve crushed on since last year.
The same man who’s suddenly making my palms so sweaty they’ll probably slip on something.
I’ve got this.
I’ve got it.
At least I’ve got my regularly scheduled disaster out of the way, though.
So why do I still have this tight dread in my chest that tells me there’s something even worse on the way?
Even with the music flowing, I feel like everyone in the café watches as Alaska and I head into my office.
Peace moving into her next song doesn’t distract much from the bedlam that just went down. The Nest is half emptied out.
Then again, I’m pretty sure a few of the death glares are from the single lady squad. They’re here in force tonight, putting aside their bitter feelings for me because Peace’s concerts make the perfect atmosphere to meet men.
Love matches by app don’t come easy in small-town Montana.
But part of me worries they’re staring for a darker reason.
Those crappy old rumors.
Even if I’ve never done anything to deserve them, my dad did plenty to taint our family.
And I guess some folks are inclined to think like father, like daughter.
Bad tree. Bad seed. You know the rest.
I mean, considering everyone used to think I was sleeping with a dude for cash before he, um, went and got himself killed...escaping unkind words behind your back takes time.
Some of those whispers hissing across the shop are probably ugly.
About how they think I’ll settle accounts with Alaska behind closed doors, sans the clothing.
It’s less his dark-brown eyes and more the sheer mortification of what people think that makes my face burn as I step into my small, cluttered office. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he can hear them muttering about what a skank they think I am.
Has he heard the rumors already, despite being a newcomer?
Is Alaska wondering about me, too, and trying to figure out how to fend off a rabid, horny mess of a woman?
I avoid looking at him as I round my paper-stacked desk and drag the bottom drawer open to rummage under piles of stuff. Seriously, it’s as bottomless as a granny’s purse, and I tip out three Sweeter Things candy sampler bags before I even get halfway through.
Presto. I finally stagger across the first aid kit buried at the bottom.
There’s only one chair, and as I straighten, I push it around the side of the desk.
“You can sit h—”
I lift my head as I speak—and freeze.
He’s already sitting on the edge of the desk, his good leg propped up and his injured leg extended.
He watches me steadily, like he can see right through me, and my heart gives one of those sharp little lurches again.
I’ve never known a man who can just look at a girl and make her feel completely naked, and I don’t mean the dirty way.
It’s this frankness, this warmth, this curiosity shining in his eyes.
He makes me feel transparent, like he sees all the odd bits of me floating to the surface with every look.
And apparently, he’s just as perceptive as those piercing eyes hint.
Because when I lower my eyes and drag the chair over for myself, he doesn’t even give me a chance to flip the kit open before he says, ever-so-gently, “You’re upset.”
I wince, pushing open the lid and fishing around inside until I come up with an antiseptic pad and rip the top off the packet.
“I’m fine, really.”
“I’m sorry about my son. I promise you, no matter the damage, I’ll cover it. I’m good for the money, Miss Felicity,” he tells me.
“No, that’s not—” I pause, biting my lip so I can focus on pulling the ripped shreds of denim aside so I can see his cut better.
Nothing like a little blood to clear a girl’s head. I take a deep breath as I carefully swab his rough skin.
“Look,” I say. “You’re pretty new to Heart’s Edge, right? But I guess you’ve been around long enough to hear the rumors.”
“Rumors? Not really,” he says. “I worked the valley job over the summer, then went back to Alaska for a while to tie up some loose ends before heading back here. So I guess I missed the rumor mill on my way in and out of town.”
I arch a brow, glancing up at him from under my lashes.
“Back up. You�
��re from Alaska, and your name’s Alaska?”
Interesting.
A broad grin splits his beard, showing off those pearly whites.
“My real name’s Paxton, but when you work construction, people give you names. Especially if you’re a big dude. They tried out Yukon for a while. Polar bear, too, but that doesn’t work when I’m not old enough to go grey yet.” His chuckle reverberates through me. “Alaska stuck. I got used to it.”
God help me, I’m smiling back like a fluttery fool.
“You look like an Alaska. Not sure you look like a Paxton,” I say. There’s something about him that just sets me at ease—but when I toss the bloody gauze in the wastebasket, rip another one off, and apply it directly to the cut, he tenses.
“Sorry,” I whisper, dabbing at his wound.
“It’s not so bad. I’m just being a baby.”
“...little big for a baby.”
Criminal understatement. In fact, it’s hard not to be aware of just how vast he is when his bulk fills most of the empty space in my office.
“Little big for just about everything, but a man gets used to that, too,” he says with a smile.
Slayed and buried.
You don’t want to know where my mind goes with that.
Here’s a hint.
I’m almost face-first in his lap, so I think a girl deserves a pass for mentally plunging into the gutter.
I clear my throat, blotting away a little more blood and then peering at the cut.
“You’re right. It’s just a surface wound. A little cream, a Band-Aid, and you’ll be fine.”
“Good thing, too. Think the closest thing you have to a doctor in this town is one hell of a cranky vet, right?”
“Doc? He’s not that cranky; he’s just sarcastic. Get him around his wife and kids and he’s a puppy. But Missoula isn’t that far for emergencies.” I dab a little antiseptic cream on the cut, then peel a fresh bandage and plaster it on in a quick swipe. “There you go.”
“Gonna kiss it and make me feel better, too?”
What.
I choke on my next breath before bursting into laughter.
I’m doubled over, clutching my sides, unsure whether his unexpected, deadpan joke makes me want to leap into a hole in the ground or just hyena-laugh my head off.
“Miss Felicity, you okay?” he asks.
