11. Chapter Ten #2
"See that one with the wraparound porch?
" I ask, indicating a cabin perched on a distant ridge, barely visible from here.
"That's the Reilly place. Nora is a retired librarian, wanted a house that felt like it had stories written into the walls.
Took me three weeks just to get the porch railing right, but when I did, she cried. "
"It's beautiful," Molly murmurs.
"And see the one with the stone chimney next to it?
Built that for the Sullivans last spring.
Mike's a chef, wanted a kitchen that could handle serious cooking.
The island is carved from a single piece of timber.
It took four guys and a crane to get it in there, but when his wife saw it.
.." I trail off, remembering Helen Sullivan's tears of joy. "She cried. Happy tears."
Molly turns in the circle of my arms to face me, her eyes bright with something that makes my chest tight. "You know you're amazing, right? You don't just build houses, Beau. You build homes. Dreams."
I look away from her eyes before I say something stupid.
Because most people see the craftsmanship, the technical skill of what I do.
But this woman sees the heart of it.
She understands it.
A gust of wind reminds us both that we're standing on a freezing cold mountain, and Molly shivers.
I reluctantly step back, immediately missing her warmth.
"Come on," I say, fighting the urge to pull her close again. "Let me show you the rest."
Back in the truck, Molly doesn't return to her original position by the passenger door.
Instead, she slides across the bench seat until she's sitting right next to me, her thigh pressed against mine from hip to knee.
It's then that I decide on taking the scenic route through town just to prolong how close she is to me.
Back down in the town, we drive through the small residential neighborhoods where most of my work is concentrated, winding through streets lined with cabins and cottages that range from rustic to elegant but all share a certain harmony with their mountain setting.
Molly asks thoughtful questions about design choices, building materials, the challenges of constructing in mountain weather and terrain.
"How do you decide what each house should look like?" she asks as I point out a contemporary cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the forest like living art.
"I listen to what the owner wants," I say simply. "People think I'm just a grumpy asshole, but maybe I just like to listen. Then the trick is building something that enhances what's already there instead of fighting against it."
"That's beautiful," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice. "I've never had work that felt that... purposeful. That connected to something larger."
Her admission tugs at something deep in my chest. "What kind of work did you do? Before..."
"Before Riley." She's quiet for a long moment, staring out at the passing houses. "Event planning. Corporate stuff. Serving customers at cafes. I've done just about everything." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I was good at whatever I did, but it never felt real. Like it mattered."
"What would you want to do? If you could choose anything."
The question seems to surprise her.
"I... I don't know." She looks at me and shakes her head. "Isn't that pathetic? I'm twenty-seven years old and I have no idea what I want to do with my life."
"It's not pathetic," I say firmly, changing gears to stop at the traffic signal in the center of town. "It's just delayed. There's a difference."
She glances at me and shakes her head. "When did you become so wise?"
"Must be all that mountain air. And time spent brooding by myself."
Her laugh is bright and genuine, filling the truck cab with warmth. "Right. Your mysterious mountain man mystique."
"I prefer 'ruggedly handsome hermit,' thank you very much."
"Oh, excuse me. My mistake." She's grinning, that playful light back in her eyes. "Though I have to say, for a hermit, you're awfully good at this whole tour guide thing."
I look across and notice how close she's gotten to me.
The truck cab suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, charged with the same electricity that sparked between us last night under the stars.
"You know… if you want to drive, just ask," I tease, glancing down at her with raised eyebrows. "You're practically sitting in my lap, Mol."
She laughs. "Me? Drive?! Yeah, right."
"What?" I throw back, laughing. "Why not? Can't handle something this big?"
"Of course I can't drive this ," she says, gesturing wildly at the dashboard.
"Look at it—it's enormous! It's like a tank with cup holders.
And these mountain roads with all the ice and snow.
.." Her voice gets smaller. "My little sedan barely made it up here before it died a dramatic death at the town line.
Riley always said I was a terrible driver, and honestly, after what happened to my poor car, maybe he was right. "
The throwaway comment is so unexpected and devastating that I slam on the brakes without thinking. The truck skids and screeches on the snowy road before coming to a complete stop in the middle of the empty mountain lane.
"BEAU!" Molly shrieks beside me, holding on for dear life. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Our bodies jerk forward as the momentum of the sudden halt comes to a sudden stop. The truck is twisted sideways, rubber-scented smoke wafting around the vehicle.
"That's not—" I start, then stop, trying to process what she just told me. Trying to control the rage that's suddenly flooding through my system like molten metal. "Jesus, Molly. Are you fucking serious right now?"
She shrugs and nods, a frown creasing her perfect features.
I'm out of the truck before I can think better of it, my boots hitting the pavement hard enough to jar my teeth.
My brother. My own fucking brother made her feel like this. How many other skills did he undermine? How many times did he chip away at her confidence while pretending to protect her?
Molly climbs out of the passenger side, looking uncertain in the middle of the empty road, snowcapped peaks rising around us like silent witnesses to my sudden rage.
"Beau, I know you're trying to be nice, but I really did almost slide off the road three times getting here—"
"Because you were driving an inappropriate vehicle in bad weather," I say, cutting her off and forcing myself to take a breath before I take it out on her.
She's clearly been through enough, and I won't allow another minute of her living her life like this.
"You wanna learn to drive? You're driving. Right now. Today."
Her eyes go wide with panic, and she takes a step back.
"No, no, no, I can't. I'll roll it down the mountain! I'll crash into a tree! What if I hurt someone? What if I—"
She starts pacing back and forth in front of the truck, her hands twisted together, her breathing quick and shallow.
The sight of her fear—fear that was programmed into her by my bastard brother—makes me want to put my fist through something.
Preferably Riley's fucking face.
Instead, I step into her path, forcing her to stop her frantic pacing. When she looks up at me, her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"Hey," I say softly, all my anger instantly replaced by something more tender, more protective. "Look at me."
She meets my eyes, and I see trust there alongside the fear.
I reach up and cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. Her skin is cold from the mountain air but warms under my touch, and I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against my palms.
"I'll be right here with you," I promise, my voice low and steady and full of every vow I'm not ready to put into words. "Just like we were last night. Up there on those mountains, you helped me. You saved those tourists. Not just me."
Molly nods, my hands still holding her.
"My hands will be on the wheel if you need them. My foot ready for the brake. Nothing bad will happen, Molly. I won't let it."
For a moment, we just stand there in the middle of the empty mountain road, the wind whispering through the pines around us, the world holding its breath.
Then, without even thinking, I lean down and kiss her.
Her lips are soft against mine, hesitant at first, then opening for me. I pull her closer, one hand sliding to her waist, the other tangling in her hair.
I pour everything I can't say into this kiss. That she's brave, worthy, perfect. And when she sighs against my mouth, I feel something break loose inside me.
This woman deserves the whole damn world.
And I want to be the one to give it to her.
When we break apart, she's looking at me with something that makes my chest tight and my heart race.
"Okay," she whispers, her voice trembling but determined. "Okay, you're right. I'll try."
I smile—actually smile, wide enough that it feels foreign on my face—and take her hand, leading her around to the driver's side of the truck.
"Good," I say, opening the door for her. "Because this isn't me telling you what to do. This you learning what freedom feels like."