Admiring the Mountain Man (Veterans of Willowbrook Ridge #1)

1. Kelsie

Kelsie

The first time Hayes Foster stepped inside the Hollow Oak, the floorboards trembled under the weight of his cane, each thump firmer than the last, a steady rhythm as deliberate as the man himself.

He still comes every Monday, without fail, trailing the scent of pine and solitude, turning our slowest day into something exciting whenever he recalls a story from his past. It’s not often that he talks about himself, but when he does, I make sure I’m one of the few who listen.

I tell myself I dread the veterans’ rowdy gatherings each week, but that’s a lie. What I dread is the way my pulse stutters when he walks in. It’s like I don’t have control over my feelings.

Hayes is a mystery wrapped in flannel and guarded silence.

A recluse with a limp, earned by an injury I’ve yet to hear about, descending from his mountain only for these gatherings.

He’s the man who has been stuck in my head from the moment he joined this growing group one sudden day, a few months ago.

A girl needs a warning for men like him.

I remember it as if it were yesterday.

Early spring. Raindrops clung to the Hollow Oak’s windows, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur. The door groaned open, and there he was, drenched and haloed in the dim glow of the bar lights.

Water slid down his facial hair and clung to his lashes. My tongue turned to lead in my mouth as I wondered if my mind was playing tricks on me.

I’d never seen a man like him—all coiled strength and quiet danger, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your skin prickle all at once. He should’ve been terrifying. And he was.

At the same time, he was so handsome.

So good-looking that I forgot to breathe. Forgot to look away. My knees threatened to give out, and my jaw? It’s a miracle it didn’t hit the floor.

At that point, I knew Mondays would never be the same.

Then he closed the distance between us, claimed the seat that he always does, and let me get an even better look at him up close for one last lethal attack.

His eyes are the kind of green that doesn’t belong in a bar—dark, storm-lashed, like they’ve memorized the shape of every wound the world can give.

Oh boy, then there is that beard. Thick, salt-and-pepper, the kind a woman could lose her fingers in. The kind I’ve thought about touching in my dreams. Stroking his cheeks before stealing as many kisses as I want.

The whole package, really.

And sometimes… that package looks back. Sure, it’s because he needs another drink, but I can pretend otherwise.

Now, while I run around the kitchen and ensure everything is ready for the rush, my heart is betraying me, fluttering with eagerness.

I nearly collide with Eden as she rounds the corner, her arms loaded with a tub of sliced citrus. She jerks back at the last second, sending a lime skittering across the floor.

“Woah, there.” She grins, steadying the wobbling tower of fruit in her arms. My face must be scarlet, because she laughs—that bright, unapologetic sound—and shifts the tub to one hip so she can squeeze my shoulder. “Breathe, babe. It’s just another Monday.”

But it’s not. Not when the love of my life is about to take his favorite stool at the bar. Hayes has been arriving right on time over the last few weeks, hardly giving me any time to prepare.

Any minute now, they’ll start flooding inside.

What started as a small group of old men coming together to reminisce about their past has now evolved into a larger group ready to let loose in the best ways.

Over a drink and a meal. Over laughter and stories that involve matters that have left them damaged.

Giving her a nod and a reassuring smile, I check with Tony to make sure all the fryers and flat top are ready to go.

Emmett has the prep station taken care of, shooing me away before I can even ask him if he needs any help.

The bartenders are all set, and everything is in order.

Then the doors push open, and Dalson steps in, the man who started this thing. He gives us a wave and a smile before he takes a seat at one of the tables. Like clockwork, more people begin to flood inside.

My job is to make sure everything runs smoothly in this place. If Gavin worked Mondays, he’d start asking me why I suddenly have an interest in bartending. The last thing I want is an interrogation to start taking place with the owner of this bar.

The other women don’t mind me too much as long as I don’t get in the way. Luckily for them, there’s only one corner I love to linger in each time I dip in and out of the kitchen.

The washcloth I use to excuse myself moves in slow circles across the counter, polishing an already spotless surface. A nervous habit. A dead giveaway.

Then I hear it, his name.

“Foster!”

That rough baritone rolls through the room like distant thunder, and just like that, my hands betray me. The washcloth twists too tightly, water seeping between my fingers, creating a mess that’s even worse than what I started with.

It’s been months since Hayes first walked into the Hollow Oak, but my body hasn’t learned indifference. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

The first time, fear and fascination battled within me. Now? Just heat.

His answering grumble—low, gravelly—sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t have to look up to know he’s scanning the room. I can feel it. Like the charged air before a storm.

And for a brief moment, it’s like he’s looking for me. Once those green eyes land on me, he’s filling the air with those familiar thumps. Heading in my direction, the scowl on his face softens.

No wonder I’m letting him get to my head. Every little thing he does makes me believe I’m special. He’ll growl at the world, but let hints of smiles slip past his lips whenever he thinks no one is looking.

When he reaches the bar, none of the bartenders think to step in his direction. They already know he’s all mine.

“Afternoon, Hayes.” My voice is the strongest part of me, my greeting unwavering. “What will it be today?”

Unlike half of the people who throw back whiskey at two in the afternoon, he’s got a long drive back home. He sticks with whatever drink I want to throw together without the burn of alcohol. Lately, he’s been itching for something sweet.

Shame I can’t throw myself at him over the counter. If I could, I would do so without hesitation.

Throat feeling tight from the ridiculous thought, I force my smile to be wider. “Same as usual?”

He nods once, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Please. I appreciate it.”

My favorite part of making his drink? The brief moment I get to spend sliding the drink toward him. He’s got a habit of taking it from me, allowing his fingertips to brush against my knuckles as he thanks me.

Once I have a colorful drink ready for him, I swear his touch lingers longer than usual.

Even if I have been working on my skills, the only times I ever try to sharpen them are when Hayes is involved.

Nervous to see what he’ll think, I bite my bottom lip and fold my fingers together as I wait for the truth.

He’s not the type of guy to save someone’s feelings.

For a heartbeat, his gaze drops. Lingers on my mouth like he’s tasting the citrus mixture already. When his eyes snap back up, the heat in them is a live wire.

He drinks. Slow. Purposeful. Throat working as he swallows, I watch as he physically relaxes.

After a long sip, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Best one yet.”

“Really?” My jaw aches as my smile grows more natural, even more so when he nods.

I don’t tell him that I’ve been asking tips from the other bartenders in hopes of impressing him, but I’m excited to see that it has worked.

Now that I’ve given him his drink, I want to linger and strike up a conversation with him. Anything to keep him talking.

I could ask him about the mountain or this gloomy weather we’ve been having lately. Too much rain to count for, making everything muddy as can be.

“Are you keeping up with all this awful weather?” Tracing the grain in the wood with my finger, I try not to come off too interested.

I don’t want him to know that I’m always thinking about what he does while hidden away on the mountain.

After hearing other mountain men talk about preparing their cabins for storms and making sure their generators are in order, I want to listen to the same words come from his lips.

Would he describe his cabin if I asked?

“The best I can. In fact—”

Before he can continue, I hear Tony’s panicked calling of my name before he pops his head out of the entrance of the kitchen.

So close to hearing his answer, I fight between pretending the whole bar didn’t hear my name and going to see what the issue is.

For a hint of a second, I swear the frown on Hayes’ lips disappears. Hardly long enough to see what he looks like when he’s amused, but I see the small curve before it can disappear.

It’s a sight for sore eyes, and I swear I swoon. Every time I catch a glimpse of the impossible sight, my knees feel like they’re going to buckle.

“I’ll let you know if I need anything. I’ll be here for a while, Kelsie. We can chat another time.” Picking up his glass, he sips tenderly at it. “We can talk about the weather later, amongst other things.”

As heat forms on my cheeks, I’m stepping back with a nod.

With the mindset of fixing the issue so I can hurry along and figure out what other things mean, I’m stepping back into my role of kitchen manager to solve the issue so I can get back to what we started with.

* * *

Broken fryer aside and a rapid call to our repairman, I’m happy to get back to the main floor.

It’s my luck that Emmett needs my help catching up on the food orders. He’s flooded with tickets thanks to being down a fryer. I’m happy to assist, even if my eyes flicker toward the kitchen entrance.

Hayes always stays late on Mondays. Lingers until the last baseball game flickers out on the TVs, nursing his drink in that quiet, watchful way of his. He won’t leave for hours yet.

Still, every time the door swings open, my pulse jumps—just in case I get the chance to see a hint of him sitting at the edge of the bar. A part of me expects he won’t be there, gone because of something coming his way.

He’s what makes me love Mondays. I don’t want anything getting in the way of properly talking to him.

Once the pile of tickets is penetrated on a metal spike, I’m washing my hands and sniffing at my shirt. I’ve got a scatter of grease stains on it now from flipping burgers on the flat top.

“I don’t smell like oil, do I?”

While Emmett moves around me to get paper towels, he sniffs the air near me and shrugs a shoulder. “A little.”

Making it seem like it doesn’t make a difference, I guess it wouldn’t to one of the cooks who is used to getting splattered with the stuff.

“If you’re worried about scaring someone away, don’t.” A rare smile tugs at his lips as he nods toward the entrance. “Eden says I smell like a damn five-course meal whenever I’m near here. Says I make her mouth water.”

His words make me sputter with a laugh as he says it so straightforwardly.

The sheer matter-of-factness of his confession makes me choke on a laugh. Should I tell him that’s textbook Eden-flirting? Or let him keep interpreting it his way—like some backhanded compliment about grill smoke and bacon grease?

But then my traitorous brain conjures something worse: Hayes leaning in close, inhaling my scent like I’m something to savor. Something he wouldn’t mind getting a taste of.

That’s all it takes before heat is flooding my cheeks, and I’m ready to splash water on my face to cool down.

“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” Muttering the words, I will admit that I’m feeling a little more confident about going out to see Hayes now. While I’m not sure if I’ll be able to look him in the eye or not with the current thoughts spiraling in my mind, it’ll keep me from hiding out in the back.

When I return to the bar, Hayes’ glass sits empty, condensation pooling around the base. He’s angled toward the game, but his attention isn’t on the screen—it’s on the ice cubes melting in his drink, swirling the remnants with absent strokes of his thumb.

Then he feels me watching.

His gaze lifts—that slow, deliberate lift of his chin—and something in his expression shifts. The usual guarded edge softens all over again, making me believe that maybe all this isn’t in my head.

My throat goes dry.

I grab a clean towel, if only to give my hands something to do as I swipe at the ring of water beneath his drink before I fetch him a new one.

As always, he lets me throw together whatever I please. When I return with another glass, he’s happy to compliment it as well, giving life to the butterflies in my stomach.

“Where were we?” The words come out too airy, too practiced. “Right. The weather…”

Hayes huffs—almost a laugh—and momentarily looks away to take in the glass panes painted in water droplets. “Still awful,” he rumbles before his famous scowl dips away again. “But the company’s improving now that you’re back.”

His words throw me off to the point where I’m dizzy. I forget how to form words, and the fluttering wings in my stomach are making me all tingly.

Maybe I’ve inhaled too many fumes in the kitchen, but it sounds like Hayes is being flirtatious. That can’t be.

Yet here he sits, watching me with something dangerously close to affection, turning my bones to liquid heat with just a few rough words.

“Well,” I manage, voice suspiciously high, “guess I’ll have to stick around then.”

His answering hum vibrates through the bar top, straight into my traitorous pulse.

At this rate, there’s no doubt that I’m in trouble.