Grumpy on the Mountain (Stone River Mountain #1)

2. Chapter One

Chapter One

Molly

My car makes a sound like a dying walrus before the engine gives one final, dramatic shudder and dies completely.

Yeah. That seems about right.

I sit in the sudden silence, snow pelting my windshield like nature's passive-aggressive way of welcoming me to my new life.

Through the white chaos, I can just make out a wooden sign that reads " Welcome to Stone River Mountain " in cheerful carved letters, complete with a little pine tree that's probably adorable when it's not being attacked by a blizzard.

"Well," I say to my steering wheel. Apparently talking to inanimate objects is where I am in life now. "At least you waited until I got here to die. That's... progress?"

I actually laugh. Out loud. Like a crazy person.

Because here's the thing… this is a victory .

I made it.

Sure, I have no money. No fiancé. No job. No life.

And okay, maybe my car just committed vehicular suicide in what appears to be the opening scene of a horror movie about city girls who make spectacularly bad decisions.

But I fucking made it .

Out of my old life, away from Riley and his controlling bullshit, away from the apartment that felt like a beautifully decorated prison, away from the endless stream of jobs that never quite fit because nothing in my life has ever quite fit.

I threw my phone out the window somewhere around mile marker forty-seven when Riley's fifteenth call of the day came through with another one of his "You'll never make it without me" voicemails, and you know what?

Best decision I've made in years.

Well. Second best. The best was leaving his sorry ass in the first place.

I push open the car door and immediately regret every life choice that led me to own ankle boots instead of, say, snowshoes.

The cold hits me like a slap from Mother Nature herself, and snow immediately begins its invasion of my coat—which, let me just say, is definitely not thick enough for this crazy mountain weather.

I'm pretty sure this coat was designed for looking cute in urban coffee shops, not surviving actual winter.

Form over function, Molly. Story of your damn life.

I trudge to the back of my ancient car. It's the only thing Riley didn't try to take in our spectacular breakup, and I manage to pop the trunk and wrestle my oversized suitcase from inside.

It's one of those expensive matching sets I bought when I thought my life was going to be all coordinated and sophisticated. Now it just looks ridiculous, like I'm trying to move my entire existence in Louis Vuitton luggage while dressed for a casual brunch.

The suitcase hits the ground with a thunk that's definitely going to leave a mark, and I realize the wheel is already giving up on life.

Of course it is. Why should my luggage have better coping mechanisms than I do?

I'm standing in a snowstorm, in inappropriate footwear, next to a dead car, with broken luggage, and no way to call for help because I dramatically destroyed my phone in a moment of cinematic fury.

This is fine, I tell myself, snow melting down the back of my neck. This is totally fine. This is just... character building.

My leg starts bouncing, and at first I think it's the freezing wind cutting through my inadequate coat, or maybe the nerves jangling through my system like live wires.

But then it hits me—oh shit! I really, really need to pee.

Like, urgently.

My bladder has apparently decided that six hours of gas station coffee and pure adrenaline is the perfect recipe for a emergency bathroom situation in the middle of a snowstorm.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Through the swirling white, I spot a warm glow in the distance. Golden light is spilling from windows that promise heat. Heat and possibly hot beverages.

Maybe, if the universe decides to throw me a bone for once, there might also be some locals who won't side-eye me for resembling a walking snowman having an existential crisis, and will point my disaster-prone self toward a mechanic.

Or a miracle worker. Or possibly a qualified life coach who specializes in women who make spectacularly bad decisions while wearing completely inappropriate footwear.

As I get closer, dragging my suitcase behind me like the world's most pathetic train, I can make out a hand-painted sign swinging gently in the wind: "The Bear Paw Café."

I actually giggle. Out loud. In a snowstorm.

The Bear Paw Café. It's so cute I might die. Or at least laugh a bit harder if I didn't have to pee so bad.

I move closer and it's like someone took everything cozy and wonderful about small-town life and condensed it into a probably-adorable-when-not-obscured-by-weather storefront.

The door has a cheerful bell that jingles when I push inside, announcing my arrival to what appears to be the entire population of the town.

The warmth hits me immediately—not just the temperature, but the feeling of warmth. Like walking into a hug that smells like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee.

And something indefinably comforting that I haven't felt in... God, maybe years.

The floors are worn hardwood that creaks in all the right places, and fairy lights are strung everywhere like someone decided Christmas should happen year-round.

Mismatched tables and chairs give the place a collected-over-time charm that makes my designer-everything apartment back home seem sterile and sad.

Black-and-white photos cover the walls with pictures of families, celebrations, and dozens of people who look genuinely happy instead of Instagram-perfect.

I'm dripping melted snow all over their beautiful floors, my suitcase leaving a trail of destruction behind me, and I probably look like a drowned rat who got lost on her way to a very different life.

It's the opposite of the life I left behind.

Riley's apartment— our apartment —was all expensive furniture and perfectly clean surfaces, like the image he projected to everyone.

I spent two years tiptoeing around that place, around him, around the women he brought home when he thought I wouldn't find out. Cleaning up lipstick-stained glasses and pretending I didn't see the texts. Making myself smaller until I almost disappeared completely.

"Oh, honey…"

I shake the memories away as a voice comes from behind the counter. I turn to see a woman who can only be described as the physical embodiment of maternal warmth. Silver curls pinned back with what appears to be a pencil, rosy cheeks, and an apron dusted with flour.

She's looking at me like she's already planning to adopt me.

"You look like you could use some coffee and about twelve hugs, dear."

"Coffee would be amazing," I manage, then realize I should probably attempt to be a functional human being and try to find the menu somewhere behind her. A menu that doesn't exist. "Um, could I maybe get a triple-shot oat milk cortado with extra foam and maybe some vanilla syrup?"

She stares, then her eyelids drop and rise ever so slowly, as if processing what I've just said.

"Honey," she says gently, like she's talking to a particularly confused child. "This is a coffee or not-coffee establishment. How about I start you with some warm milk and we work from there?"

Oh God. I can't even order coffee correctly.

What the hell has that man done to me?

Seriously.

What does this say about my life skills?

What does this say about my ability to function as an independent adult?

I spent far too long letting Riley order for me at restaurants because he said I "took too long to decide," and now I can't even navigate a simple coffee shop without revealing myself to be a walking disaster of urban pretension.

"Coffee," I say quickly as the lady starts to steam some milk. "Just... coffee. Please. Whatever kind of coffee you think I need."

She beams at me like I just said something profound. "Now you're talking sense. I'm Betty, and you look like you need a slice of cherry pie."

"I didn't order pie—"

"You didn't order a lot of things, sweetie, but sometimes what we need and what we ask for are two different creatures entirely.

" She's already pouring coffee from a pot that looks like it's been brewing liquid comfort for decades.

"Go on ahead, sweetheart. You just sit yourself down anywhere you like, and I'll get you sorted. "

I choose a table by the window, partly because the view of snow-covered pines is like something out of a fairy tale, and partly because I need to keep an eye on my car in case it spontaneously combusts or gets towed by mountain authorities or something equally catastrophic.

Just as I remember I need the bathroom, Betty appears beside me with a mug the size of a small bowl and a plate containing what might be the most perfect slice of pie I've ever seen.

"Thank you," I say, and I'm horrified to realize my voice is a little shaky. "This is... this is really kind."

The coffee smells like heaven mixed with a warm cuddle, and the pie… God, the pie looks like it was crafted by angels who specialize in comfort food.

A golden-brown lattice crust that crackles just looking at it, woven like a homespun blanket over ruby-red cherry filling that glistens before my eyes. Little crimson jewels of fruit peek through the gaps, promising sweet-tart ecstasy with every bite.

"This is what we do here." Betty settles into the chair across from me like we're old friends. "Now, what brings a city girl to Stone River Mountain in the middle of a snowstorm?"

Before I can answer, the bell jingles again, and two elderly women enter. One is wearing a lavender-colored oversized cardigan and cat-eye glasses that make her look like she could read your soul, and the other is the picture of sweetness in a pastel sweater, clutching a Tupperware container.

The women stomp snow from their boots like synchronized dancers, huffing and puffing like they've just ran down the mountain cliffs.

"Lord Almighty, it's colder than a witch's—well, you know," says one of them, rubbing her gloved hands together.