3. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Beau
Fuck.
That's Molly Jennings. My brother's girlfriend.
Sitting in Betty's café, honey-blonde hair escaping from what was probably supposed to be a neat bun this morning, moss-green eyes that are wide with the kind of surprise that comes from walking into a situation you're not equipped to handle.
She's got a coffee mug clutched in both hands like it's the only thing anchoring her to reality, and there's a designer suitcase beside her table that's been through some kind of war.
She looks like trouble wrapped in cashmere.
I tear my eyes away, forcing my face back into the neutral mask I've perfected since Afghanistan. I adjust my grip on the antique chair I've been carrying through the blizzard. The one Betty insisted needed "just a little love" when the back spindle cracked last week.
The café is exactly as it always is: warm, golden, smelling like cinnamon and coffee. The kind of place that makes you think the world might not be complete shit.
Except now it's also got Molly Jennings in it. Which means my past is sitting at that window table, staring at me like she's seen a ghost.
But here's the thing that hits me hardest.
She's looking right at me, sparkling eyes scanning my face with polite curiosity but not a single ounce of recognition. No, holy shit, is that Beau Callahan?
"Beau Callahan," Betty calls out, wiping her hands on her apron. "What in heaven's name are you doing coming down the mountain in this weather?"
I clear my throat and look away from Molly, pushing forward towards the counter where Betty meets me with a kind smile. A smile I definitely don't deserve.
"Fewer people around in storms, ma'am. Fewer faces to pretend to smile at."
Betty snorts. "Charming as ever."
I set the chair down next to the counter, deliberately keeping my back to the window table. I can feel Molly's eyes on me. Can practically hear her pulse from here.
Of course she doesn't fucking recognize me. Why would she?
The last time she saw me, I was a lean twenty-something with a military cut, clean-shaven and unmarked. Well before the shrapnel pierced my skin. Before the nightmares that keep me up every fucking night.
I'm thirty-six now. Two hundred pounds of hard-earned muscle and scar tissue, with a beard that's gone gray at the edges and eyes that have seen shit I'll never talk about.
The kid she knew enlisted the day after graduation and disappeared into the Army. The man standing here came back carrying ghosts and a military-issued purple heart I keep in a drawer and try to forget about.
But I remember her. Every goddamn detail.
"Loose screw in the joint," I say, running my hand over the smooth wood, trying to keep my thoughts in check. "Should hold now."
"You're a godsend." Betty bustles over, examining my work. "What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. It was just a loose screw."
"Don't you dare give me that, Mr. Callahan." She's marching to the register, punching buttons with the authority of someone who's settled this exact argument a hundred times before. "Things need proper attention, even the small fixes."
"It was a loose screw. Took five minutes."
I'm about to tell her where she can stick her money when she appears beside me, cash in hand. Before I can react, she's shoving the bills into my back pocket and giving my ass a pat that's definitely crossing some kind of weird older-lady boundary.
"Betty—"
"Hush. Buy yourself something nice." She winks like she's just accomplished some major life goal.
Something nice. Like what? Another flannel shirt? More ammunition? A personality that doesn't send people running?
Betty's hand finds my arm, her fingers surprisingly strong for a woman her age. "Perfect timing you dropping by, actually. We've got ourselves a situation that could use a man with your… skills."
I make the mistake of glancing over. Molly's still watching me, her green eyes wide, a cookie frozen halfway to her mouth.
Her hair is damp from melted snow, and there's a smudge of mascara under her eye. It's the kind of detail I was trained to notice, but now I want to know whether it's smudged from crying, or from the storm swirling around outside.
A surge of protectiveness rises in my chest, and I feel my hands squeeze tighter.
"Not my problem," I mutter, but even I don't believe it.
"She needs help with her car," Betty continues, undeterred by my clear stubbornness. "Broke down right as she got to town."
I clench my jaw. "There are mechanics in Stone River."
"In this storm? They're all closed up tight." Betty's voice drops lower. "And that girl's running from something. Or someone."
That gets my attention.
Riley. She's running from Riley.
Something cold and hard settles in my gut. I know exactly what my brother is capable of. There's a reason I have nothing to do with assholes like him anymore.
But if they broke up…
"She says her sister lives here," Betty adds, watching my face carefully. "Sienna Wright. With the little girl?"
I know Sienna. I'm always at her house fixing shit because her husband is away for work. Quiet woman. Good kid.
"I'm not a mechanic," I grunt.
Betty smiles like she's already won. "No, you're a good man who doesn't like to admit it." She picks up a coffee pot and gestures toward Molly's table. "Now come meet our visitor properly."
I know I should say no. Should finish my business with Betty and get the hell out of here before I get any more involved in whatever chaos Riley left in his wake.
But I can't stop looking at her car through the window, half-buried in snow. At her ridiculous suitcase with its broken wheel. At the exhaustion written across her face.
"Fine," I finally say, the word scraping out of my throat. "I'll take a look at her car."
Betty beams. "I knew you would."
My feet feel like they're cemented to the floor. Meeting Molly means questions. Means explaining who I am. Means opening the door to a past I've spent years building walls against.
"But that's it," I add firmly. "I'm not getting involved in... whatever this is."
Betty pats my arm, her eyes twinkling with a knowing look that makes me want to walk straight back into the blizzard.
If there's one thing I've learned from war, it's that you can't outrun destiny. You can only prepare for the damage it brings.
Etta looks up as I stomp over behind Betty and practically launches herself from her seat.
"Oh, Beau! Thank God you're here. This poor girl's car is deader than my second husband."
She clutches my arm like I'm the last helicopter out of a combat zone.
Mabel follows, nodding vigorously. "Stopped right at the town line. Divine intervention, if you ask me."
"Nobody asked you," I mutter, but Mabel continues as if I hadn't spoken.
As she talks, I steal another glance at Molly, who's now standing awkwardly by her table, fiddling with the zipper of her useless coat.
She looks nothing like the confident teenager who used to trail after Riley with stars in her eyes. That Molly had sun-kissed skin and easy laughter. This one looks haunted, hollowed out.
What the hell did you do to her, Riley?
"Look, ladies. I build shit," I say flatly. "Not fix engines. I'm not your guy."
"Language young man," Etta chides, swatting my arm.
Betty refills Molly's coffee cup. "Beau here is being modest. He can fix just about anything with an engine."
That's not entirely true. I can make temporary repairs in crisis situations because the military taught me how to keep vehicles running when lives depended on it. Not because I'm some mechanical savant.
Molly slides out of the booth and approaches cautiously, like I might bolt if she moves too quickly.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
Up close, I can see the cold has painted her cheeks pink. Her lips look soft, slightly pink and chapped as she approaches, and I catch myself staring at the gentle curve of her neck, my teeth clamping down as if I'm already imagining how good her skin would taste.
My gaze tracks lower to her hips, the kind made for a man's hands to grip. My blood surges hot, pounding in my ears, imagining how she would look bent over—
"I'm Molly. And I would really appreciate any help you can offer," she says, smiling up at me.
Fuck. I'm so screwed here.
Her voice is softer than I remember, but there's still that slight rasp that used to make me go quiet whenever she spoke, just so I could hear her better.
I scruff my beard, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket. "Fine. I'll take a look."
"Johnson's Auto won't open until Monday now," Betty adds, glancing at the worsening storm outside. "Storm's got everyone battened down."
"We can tow it," I grumble, already heading towards the door. "I've got chains in my truck."
Molly nods gratefully, skipping in behind me. "That would be amazing. Thank you."
She's wearing expensive boots, designer jeans with decorative tears that defeat their purpose and a watch that could probably pay off my property taxes for a year.
She's got all the hallmarks of my brother's world. Flashy, impractical, and designed to impress rather than endure.
"Storm's getting worse," I say, stepping outside. "Better check the damage now."
The blast of cold air as we step outside is almost a relief. I trudge through the deepening snow toward her car—a sleek sedan completely unsuited for mountain roads.
Molly scrambles to follow, and I resist the urge to help her in the snow. Proximity is dangerous.
She doesn't recognize me. Just help her and go home.
I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. To her, I'm just some mountain man offering assistance, not the brother of the man who broke her.
I pop the hood of Molly's car, and it takes me about thirty seconds to confirm what I already suspected.
Molly's standing beside me, shivering in a coat that was definitely designed for looking cute in urban coffee shops, not surviving actual winter. She's trying to peer over my shoulder at the engine like she might suddenly develop mechanical expertise through proximity.
"It's fucked," I announce, letting the hood slam shut.
"Um, excuse me?" Her eyes widen, those moss-green irises catching the dim light from the café.
"I said it's fucked ."
She blinks, snow gathering on her eyelashes. "That's... very technical of you."
Despite the freezing fucking cold, the situation of the gorgeous woman beside me, and the fact that I'm standing three feet away from a woman who used to star in most of my teenage fantasies… I almost smile.
Almost.
"Come on," I say, trudging back toward the café. "Nothing's getting fixed today."
She follows, slipping and sliding in those ridiculous boots like a newborn deer trying to figure out how legs work. I don't slow down, but I'm aware of every stumble, every little gasp when she catches herself.
Not your problem, I remind myself. Not your responsibility.
But when she goes down hard on a patch of ice, instinct kicks in and I'm turning around, hauling her over my shoulder before my brain can catch up with my actions.
She lets out a startled yelp as I lift her, the sound carried away by the wind. Her body is light against my shoulder, tense with surprise.
"Put me down!" she protests, voice muffled against my jacket.
I ignore her, focusing on each careful step across the treacherous ice.
"I can walk!" she insists, but her fingers grip my coat, betraying her fear.
"Easy," I mutter, steadying her on her feet with hands that could probably span her entire waist.
"Thanks," she breathes, and for a second we're just standing there on the doorstep of the café in the snow, her looking up at me with those green eyes, me trying to remember why helping her is a bad idea.
Then I remember exactly why it's a bad idea, because touching Molly Jennings feels like touching a live wire, and I've got enough scars without adding electrically stupid to the list.
I drop my hands and step back.
When I glance into the café, I can see three sets of eyeballs pressed against the window like amateur spies who think they're being subtle. Etta, Mabel, and Betty, are watching our every move with the intensity of people placing bets on a horse race.
Great.
We trudge back inside, both of us shaking snow off like wet dogs.
"Well?" Betty asks, suddenly moving and wiping already-clean mugs.
"Dead as disco," I confirm.
Molly shivers, brushing snow from her hair. The simple action releases a hint of vanilla that cuts through the café's coffee scent. It's distracting in a way I don't want to acknowledge.
"Is there somewhere I could call a taxi?" Molly asks earnestly.
The silence that follows is broken only by the wind rattling the windows.
Then Betty starts laughing. Actually laughing, hands on her hips, like Molly just asked if there's somewhere she could rent a rainbow colored unicorn.
Etta and Mabel join in, the sound carrying through the café like this is the funniest thing they've heard all year.
"Oh, honey," Betty gasps, wiping her eyes. "A taxi. In Stone River Mountain."
"There's no taxi?" Molly asks, looking around at all of us like we might be playing some kind of elaborate prank.
Mabel wheezes, holding her stomach. "The nearest taxi service is in Asheville. Forty miles of mountain roads away."
"We don't even have Scuba up here," Etta adds, clearly enjoying Molly's city-girl naivety.
Mabel slaps Etta's shoulder, swiping a tear from her eye. " Uber. Not scuba."
Molly's face falls, her earlier bravery crumbling. "But how am I supposed to get to Sienna's? I can't walk in this."
Through the frosted windows, the town's disappeared. Nothing but white fury swirling against dark skies.
"Not unless you want to be a human popsicle," Betty confirms.
And somehow, despite every instinct that's kept me alive through years of service, despite knowing that getting involved with anything related to Riley is a guaranteed path to disaster, despite the fact that this woman represents everything I came to Stone River Mountain to escape, I open my damn mouth.
"Get in my truck," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "I'll drive you."
Molly's face lights up like I just offered to solve every problem she's ever had. "You'll what?"
"Drive you." I raise an eyebrow. "What? Did all that city noise deaden your hearing?"
"No." She shakes her head, a cute little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "It's just... kind, that's all. My fiancé never offered me anything like that."
The words hit me like a sniper's bullet.
Fiancé.
Not boyfriend. Not ex-boyfriend.
Fiancé.
Riley was engaged to her. My brother… the same brother who used to steal my lunch money and tell our parents I was the one who broke things… was going to marry Molly Jennings.
The only woman who's ever stopped my heart the way she does.
"Let's go," I mutter, turning toward the door before she can see the truth written all over my face.