9. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Beau
I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus on the road instead of the woman beside me.
What the fuck was I thinking?
"You wanna come?"
What an idiot.
Now Molly Jennings is sitting in my truck, her dinner outfit completely wrong for a mountain rescue, and we're heading toward a part of my life I've never shared with anyone.
This woman was almost my sister-in-law. My brother's fiancée. The one person I should stay far away from.
And now I can't seem to stay away from her.
Riley might be a world-class asshole, but surely there are lines you don't cross. Especially with family.
Not that he'd ever extended me the same courtesy.
I wonder, with a twinge of guilt that surprises me, how much of my attraction to Molly is wrapped up in my complicated history with my brother.
Is this some fucked-up way of getting back at him? Of taking something he valued?
One glance at her profile in the dim light of the dashboard, and I know that's bullshit. Whatever this is between us has nothing to do with Riley.
The truck's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating snow-laden pines on either side of the winding road. Every few seconds, my eyes betray me, sliding to the right where Molly sits with her hands tucked between her knees, those green eyes taking in everything.
That sweater she wore to dinner, deep burgundy and clinging to curves I have no business noticing, is about as practical for a mountain rescue as a swimsuit in Antarctica.
She catches me glancing at her outfit again and raises an eyebrow. "What? Is there something on my sweater?"
"Your sweater's fine. It's your shoes that are the death trap."
She laughs, looking down at her heels. "What, these aren't standard issue mountain rescue footwear? I'm shocked."
I smile for what must be the millionth fucking time tonight.
The truth is, I've had a great time. And I didn't want it to end.
I wanted to kiss her and drag her back to my truck. Maybe we could have gone up to the lookout and laid out in the back of my truck, star gaze together while wrapped up in warm blankets.
Instead, here we are, with the Mountain Rescue headquarters coming into view. The place is a former fire station, with timber accents and massive bay doors.
Even from here I can see the movement inside, the organized chaos of multiple rescue operations gearing up.
My throat constricts, and for a moment I can't breathe. My hands tighten on the wheel as memories of the last time I was here surface.
The radio static, the shouted orders, the metallic scent of blood mixing with forest. I had a gut-wrenching flashback that forced me to back down from the last mission Jamie asked me to jump in on.
It's the reason I haven't been back here since. The reason I don't usually answer his calls.
"Hey..." Molly's voice cuts through the fog. "Are you okay?"
I start to nod automatically, the way I always do when people ask that question. But something about her genuine concern breaks through my usual defenses.
"Places like this... still hard sometimes," I admit, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "They, um… they remind me of things I'd rather forget. That's all."
I expect pity, or worse, questions.
Instead, Molly reaches over and squeezes my hand where it rests on the gearshift.
"Thank you for telling me that," she says simply.
Her fingers are warm, slender, and surprisingly strong. And I never fucking want her to let go.
I stare at her hand on mine, shocked by how such a small touch can anchor me to the present when nothing else has worked. No therapy sessions, no fancy doctors and their little white pills.
"We don't have to go in," she offers. "You could tell me what they need, and I could relay it."
The absurdity of her suggestion—city girl in heels acting as my rescue liaison—almost makes me laugh.
"No," I say, finally pulling into a parking space. "I can handle it."
What I don't say is that somehow, her presence makes it easier. Which makes no fucking sense at all.
We get inside and pretty quickly, the main operations room hits me with a wall of noises I still hear in the silence of the darkest of nights.
I instinctively square my shoulders, my body remembering a uniform it no longer wears, responding to a chain of command that no longer claims me.
Maps cover one wall, marked with color-coded pins for different types of emergencies. Jamie Striker looks up from a topographical map spread across the central table, surprise registering on his face when he spots us.
"Callahan!" he calls, striding over. His eyes shift to Molly with undisguised interest. "Didn't expect you to bring a date to a rescue."
Heat crawls up my neck. "She's not—We weren't—"
"I was in the wrong place at the right time, apparently," Molly interjects smoothly, saving me from my own nervous fumbling.
Jamie's grin widens. "Well, lucky for us then. I'm Jamie Striker, Mountain Rescue coordinator." He extends a hand to Molly, holding her grip a beat too long. "We've got some extra gear that would fit you perfectly."
A flare of something hot and possessive surges through me. Right now, that's a dangerous concoction given what's going on inside my head.
"I'll handle her gear," I interrupt, surprising myself with the edge in my voice.
Her gear? When did she become my responsibility?
And what right do I have to feel this way? She was Riley's. And Callahan men don't share well. That's a toxic trait I swore I'd never inherit from our father.
Jamie raises an eyebrow but steps back, motioning us toward the central table where a map is spread out.
"I'm real sorry to drag you out here, Beau," he says, smoothing over the map. "But I didn't have a choice. Our biggest truck's transmission blew last week, and the storm cut of the delivery for a new one."
"It's fine. What do you need?"
"Family of four, SUV slid halfway down the north ridge. No injuries reported, but they're stranded."
"Details or visuals?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on the mission instead of the way Molly draws closer to me as the radio static increases behind us.
"Minnesota tourists. Tried to take a 'scenic route' according to their GPS. Hit an ice patch on the curve by Devil's Drop." Jamie traces the location on the map. "Front end's wedged against a pine, only thing keeping them from going all the way down."
I nod, already mentally cataloging what we'll need. "Winch, chains, stabilizers. How long they been out there?"
"About an hour. They've got heat, but the dad tried to get out and nearly went down the slope himself. Told them to stay put."
I scan the room, finding the equipment storage door. "Let's load up."
Molly follows me into the adjacent room, a cavernous space lined with shelves of rescue equipment. I grab a duffel and start filling it with what we'll need, then pause, really looking at her heels for the first time.
"You can't go up there in those."
She looks down. "What, these shoes don't say 'mountain rescue ready' to you?"
"They say 'asking for a broken ankle.' Wait here."
I find the women's gear section and grab thermal socks, insulated boots, and a set of snow pants. When I return, Molly's examining a length of climbing rope with curiosity.
"Put these on," I say, holding out the bundle.
She raises an eyebrow. "Most guys just ask me to take my clothes off on the second date, they don't drag me to a rescue mission."
My brain short-circuits. "This isn't—We're not—"
She laughs, the sound bright in the utilitarian space. "Relax, mountain man. I'm kidding." She takes the gear. "Where can I change?"
I point to a small locker room off to the side, trying to ignore the implications of what she said. Second date . Like this was a date. Like the dinner was a date. Which it wasn't.
Was it?
When she emerges minutes later, I almost don't recognize her.
The oversized snow pants make her look like a kid playing dress-up, the boots clunking with each step. But somehow, with her fancy makeup and that hair still perfectly styled, she manages to make rescue gear look good.
Real fucking good.
"Better?" she asks, doing a little turn.
Better for my concentration, maybe. Worse for my sanity, definitely.
I grunt and thrust a coil of rope into her arms. "Hold this."
She takes it, then reaches for the carabiners I hand her next. By the time I've gathered everything we need, she's loaded down like a pack mule, only her eyes visible above the gear piled in her arms.
"Are you sure you need all this?" she asks, voice muffled behind a bundle of straps.
"Rather have it and not need it."
She takes a step forward and stumbles, the entire pile wobbling precariously. I lunge to steady her, grabbing her shoulders before she can topple.
A laugh bubbles up from her chest, and before I know it, I'm laughing too—actually laughing, the sound rusty and unfamiliar.
I can't remember the last time I laughed like this. Months? Years?
I step back, taking half the load from her arms. "Let's go."
"Stay safe up there, Callahan," Jamie calls after us. "And Ms. Jennings? Hope to see you again under less rushed circumstances."
I don't acknowledge his comment, but I feel my jaw tighten.
Back in the truck, with the gear loaded in the bed, I glance at Molly. "You good?"
She nods, buckling her seatbelt. "Lead on, boss."
The North Ridge road is treacherous on a good day. Tonight, with fresh snow and ice patches, it's a nightmare.
But Jamie's right.
My truck is the only one in town that can handle it, and I navigate the familiar turns with the precision that comes from years of mountain driving.
Molly says nothing as we climb higher, but I feel her tension in the way she grips the door handle. The headlights illuminate steep drops on one side, sheer rock face on the other. Up here, there's no room for error.
"Scared?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the road.
"Terrified," she admits readily. "But also kind of exhilarated. Is that weird?"
I shake my head. "Normal response to danger."