17. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Beau
I stand in my kitchen like a man who's forgotten how to use his own fucking appliances.
The professional-grade stovetop gleams under the morning sunlight, all six burners pristine and barely touched since I installed them three years ago. Same with the stainless steel refrigerator. And the convection oven that I've used maybe twice in all the time I've lived here.
Because what's the point of cooking for one person who barely remembers to eat most days?
But now... now Molly is sitting in my living room wearing nothing but my flannel shirt, her sexy fucking legs tucked under her as she chats with her sister.
And suddenly every piece of equipment in this kitchen needs to earn its keep.
I dig through my freezer, pushing past containers of forgotten leftovers and that three-month-old rabbit stew until my fingers find a package of bacon wedged in the back corner.
The wrapper crinkles as I pull it out, ice crystals clinging to the plastic.
I must've bought this on a good day. When the voices in my head weren't cursing at me and the phantom explosions weren't drowning out everything else.
The good days have been rare.
Days when I can drive into town without my hands shaking on the steering wheel. When I can stand in line at the grocery store without scanning every exit and calculating the fastest route out. When the world doesn't feel like it's constantly on the verge of falling apart.
But apparently, even on my worst days, some part of me was still planning for this moment.
For her.
I unwrap the bacon, laying each strip in the cast iron skillet I actually do use regularly. The sizzle when it hits the hot metal is satisfying and I get to work on the rest.
Eggs. I definitely have eggs.
I crack six of them into a bowl, whisking them with the kind of focus I used to reserve for disarming explosive devices.
Because this matters. She matters.
And I'll be damned if I'm going to serve my girl some half-assed breakfast like she's just another person passing through.
She's not passing through.
She's staying. In my bed, in my life, in this space I built to keep everyone else out.
And the terrifying thing is how much I want her here.
How natural it feels to glance through the kitchen doorway and see her curled up on my couch, sunlight catching in her hair as she shows Sienna the phone I bought her just so I had a way of keeping in touch with her.
I watch her for a moment, snapping pictures of something in the living room.
The view first. Then the fireplace.
But then she turns the camera toward herself, making a face at the screen, and my heart does something acrobatic in my chest. She's documenting this. This morning, this moment, us . Like it's something worth remembering.
Like I'm something worth remembering.
"Where the hell did I put the good plates?" I mutter, opening cabinet after cabinet until I find the set Betty insisted I buy years ago.
"You can't eat everything off paper plates, Beau. What if you have company?"
"I don't do company, Betty."
"You will someday. Trust me."
The woman was right, as usual. The plates are white ceramic with a simple blue rim—nothing fancy, but they're real dishes instead of the chipped mismatched collection I usually use.
I set them on the dining table with actual care, adding the cloth napkins that have been sitting unused in a drawer for God knows how long.
The bacon's filling the cabin with its rich, smoky scent, and I can hear Molly's delighted laugh carrying from the living room.
"Coffee," I say out loud, because apparently I talk to myself now. "I need coffee."
I do have good coffee, at least. The expensive stuff I order online because if I'm going to drink something every morning, it might as well not taste like motor oil.
I grind the beans fresh, then start the brewing process on my professional-standard machine.
The timer on my phone buzzes, and I flip the bacon, watching the strips curl and crisp to golden perfection.
"Christ, this bacon's probably older than my last conversation with another human," I mutter, but the strips are cooking up beautifully anyway, filling the kitchen with the kind of smell that makes everything feel like home.
Home.
When did this place start feeling like home instead of just a fortress?
"Breakfast is ready," I call out, plating up the food.
"Oh my God, it smells incredible in here," Molly breathes, bouncing up from the couch and practically skipping over to peck me on the cheek.
My shirt rides up her thighs as she moves, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from crossing the room and reminding her exactly what we were doing an hour ago.
Sienna follows more sedately, but I catch the way her eyes widen as she takes in the table I've set.
"Beau, this is..." Molly settles into the chair I pull out for her, looking up at me with those green eyes that make my brain stop working. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"Wasn't any trouble," I lie, because the truth is I would have climbed Everest barefoot if it meant putting that expression on her face.
Sienna sits across from her, accepting the plate I hand her with a smile that reminds me exactly why Molly turned out so warm and genuine. Good family. The kind that builds each other up instead of tearing each other down.
An absolute contrast to where I've come from.
"This place really is incredible, Beau," Sienna says, cutting into her eggs and looking around the cabin.
Before I can deflect with my usual grunt and subject change, Molly jumps in with an enthusiastic bounce and beaming smile that makes her already gorgeous eyes twinkle even brighter.
"He built every inch of it!" she exclaims, gesturing with her fork like she's conducting an orchestra. "Can you believe that? The foundation, the walls, all the custom woodwork. The entire cabin is basically a work of art disguised as a house."
I freeze with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.
She's... bragging about me. About my work. Like she's proud of what I've built here.
"I know, honey," Sienna says gently. "He builds everyone's places around here. But—"
"But this one is special ," Molly interrupts, her voice getting more animated.
"Beau doesn't just build for function. Every detail has meaning.
Like the river rocks in the fireplace—he told me he collected each one himself because he wanted something that connected the cabin to the land.
And the windows are positioned to catch the sunrise and sunset perfectly, so you're always connected to the natural rhythm of the day. "
She remembers that? I mentioned the rocks and windows once, in passing, while giving her the tour.
For a moment, the only sound is the gentle clink of silverware against plates. Sienna's watching this exchange with the kind of smile that suggests she's figuring out exactly how deep this thing between us goes.
And me?
I'm sitting here like a goddamn fool, staring at the woman who just described my life's work like it's something worthy of admiration instead of just the desperate project of a broken man trying to build walls high enough to keep the world out.
No one has ever been proud of me before.
Not my parents, who saw everything I did as either meeting expectations or falling short of them. Not the military, where excellence was duty, not something to celebrate. Certainly not Riley, who spent our entire childhood making sure I knew that being older didn't make me better.
But Molly...
She talks about my work like it matters. Like I matter.
"Well," Sienna says finally, her voice warm with amusement, "I can see why you decided to stay the night. But if he's gone and bought you a brand new phone, I think a phone call would've been nice."
"I know. We were… distracted." Molly's cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't look away from me. "Among other reasons."
I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject before I do something embarrassing. "More coffee?"
"Please," Sienna says, holding out her mug. As I pour, she glances around the room again, her gaze stopping on something behind me.
"Are those military photos?" she asks, nodding toward the bookshelf where I keep the few pictures I can stand to look at.
Fuck.
I never should have left those out. Out of the very few people who have stepped inside my home, most of them have been too polite to ask, or too intimidated by my general demeanor to push for details.
But Sienna acts like we're family now.
And apparently that means the normal social barriers don't apply.
"Beau served overseas," Molly says casually, like it's just another piece of information about me instead of the thing that broke me into pieces. "Three tours, right?"
She looks at me for confirmation, and I manage a nod.
How does she know that? Did I tell her last night?
"He was Special Forces," she continues.
There's something in her voice that makes me look at her sharply. Not pity. Not the careful sympathy people usually wear when military service comes up.
Just... acceptance.
Like it's part of who I am, not something that needs to be fixed or explained away.
"That explains the over the top awareness," Sienna murmurs. "The way you positioned yourself with your back to the wall, eyes on all the exits."
She noticed that?
"And the way you grabbed that broom like it was a weapon," Molly adds with a grin that takes the sting out of the observation. "Very impressive tactical thinking. I'm sure dust bunnies everywhere are terrified of you now."
Despite everything—the tension, the memories, the familiar ache in my chest when my service comes up—I almost smile.
Almost.
"Coffee's getting cold," I mutter, settling back into my chair.
But Molly's not done talking, apparently. She pulls out her phone, snapping a picture of the breakfast spread, then another of the view through the window.
"This is going on my Instagram story," she announces. "With the caption 'breakfast made by the most amazing man in the world.'"
"Molly, I don't think anyone needs to see that."
"Too late," she says, typing rapidly. "Already posted. Though I should probably warn you, my followers are going to want to know where they can find their own mountain man who cooks like this."
The possessive growl that rises in my chest surprises me. "They can't."
We're halfway through breakfast when Sienna brings up the elephant in the room.
"So," she says, cutting her bacon with surgical precision.
"About tomorrow. David's coming home, and I'm throwing him a welcome back BBQ.
The whole town's going to show up." She looks at me directly.
"Will you come down and help? We could use those strong arms for moving tables and setting up the tent. "
My fork stops halfway to my mouth.
The familiar panic rises in my chest—the thought of spending hours surrounded by people, making small talk, pretending to be normal.
Smiling and nodding and being civil when all I've ever done in moments like this is retreat back up here where it's quiet and safe and no one expects anything from me.
"Oh, I don't think so. I've got… stuff… to handle up here," I say automatically, the same deflection I've been using for three years.
But even as the words leave my mouth, my eyes drift to the window. To the pile of lumber I've been collecting for months, stacked neatly beside my workshop.
Maisie's treehouse.
I've got almost enough material now. Good pieces, carefully selected. The design's been rattling around in my head for weeks—something with multiple levels, a rope ladder, maybe even a pulley system for hauling up the "treasure" she insists on finding.
When's the last time I built something for pure joy instead of necessity?
When's the last time I had a reason to build something joyful?
I think about that night with Molly at the rescue station. How being around Jamie and the team wasn't as unbearable as usual. How having her there made everything... manageable.
Maybe I could call Jamie. Tell him I'm ready to take on more Mountain Rescue work. It wasn't that bad when Molly was with me, and everything's better when she's around.
Everything's better when she's around.
The realization hits me like a freight train.
It's not just the sex, though Christ knows that's incredible.
It's not just the way she looks at me like I'm something worth keeping. It's the way her presence seems to quiet the noise in my head. The way she makes me want to be the man she sees when she looks at me.
The way she makes me remember that I used to enjoy talking to people. That I used to be part of something bigger than just my own survival.
I look at her now, sitting at my table in my shirt, phone in hand as she documents our morning like it's something precious.
Maybe I could handle a BBQ. If she's there. If she's by my side, making everything brighter just by existing.
Maybe I'm ready to try.
"Actually," I hear myself saying. "The stuff can wait. I think it's time I built that treehouse."
Both women look at me in surprise.
"For Maisie," I clarify, nodding toward the lumber pile. "I've been collecting materials. Got enough now to start."
"She's going to lose her mind," Molly says, her face lighting up.
"Will you need help?" Sienna asks. "David's good with his hands, and I'm sure some of the other guys would—"
"I can handle it," I interrupt, then pause and look at Molly. "Might need a supervisor, though. Someone to make sure it meets all the architectural requirements I've seen in those drawings."
Her smile could power the entire mountain. "I volunteer."
"Good," I say. "Then I guess I'll be at the BBQ tomorrow."
The words feel foreign on my tongue, but not wrong. Not when Molly's looking at me like I just offered to move mountains for her.
Which, honestly, I probably would.
For her, I'd do damn near anything.
Even rejoin the world.