Promises on the Mountain: The Hart Family of Moonshine Ridge

Chapter 1

Getting up at three thirty in the morning to start your day might sound crazy to most people, but I love it.

I love being showered and dressed and opening the cafe before the sun is even peaking over the mountain ridges to the east. I love the smell of fresh ground beans in the air while I watch the little mountain town wake up around me-- and I especially love that so many of them have begun to make me part of their morning routine.

Running my own coffee shop has been my dream since I was eight years old, the first time my aunt Jenny took me out for my first latte. Not that my mom was particularly thrilled with her sister for bringing me home spun up on espresso and sugar at that age, but I”ll never forget watching the barista pull hand-packed shots from the ancient espresso machine with all the noise and steam of a Willie Wonka contraption.

It was magic.

I was hooked-- on coffee, and on the dream of owning my own cafe one day.

The mini blinds clatter as I pull the string to open them all the way up. I turn the hand-painted sign in the window around to show ”open” to the outside world, and then I work my way through the small seating area, straightening chairs and the silk flower arrangement on each table while I wait for the people of Moonshine Ridge to start filing in.

It”s only been a few weeks since I opened Mountain Mocha but things are going well. I”ve met a lot of good people, even made a couple of friends-- although, no one really close.

It”s hard to get close to people these days. I tell myself it”s the three-thirty a.m. alarm, or because I”m distracted with establishing the business, but the truth is that I turn down Terra and Zephyr”s offers to hang out after work because I”m not ready yet.

The people here think I”m a normal girl, pursuing my dreams, filled with sunshine and optimism, and it”s been so long since I was, I guess I just want to spend more time seeing myself through their eyes.

Real friendships mean letting people see who you really are. For now, I want to enjoy being the person they think I am. Someone a lot more like who I used to be.

Thinking about friendships has me wondering what things would be like now if Mia was still here.

We were going to do this together.

When we met, I”d been baristaing for two years already-- I”d begged Joy to hire me as soon as I was old enough to work for her.

Mia didn”t drink coffee. She didn”t even like the way it smelled. She hated working the opening shift, having to be up and faking perkiness at five a.m., but we hit it off and before I knew it, she was planning on opening the cafe with me.

The bells on the door jingle and the usual crew of guys head toward me, taking me out of my thoughts and giving me a reason to put a smile on my face.

”Tall oat milk cinnamon white mocha, right, Levi?” I confirm his order as he makes his way to the counter.

Levi smiles at me the way boys smile at girls as he nods in the affirmative.

”Oat milk? Really dude?” One of the guys teases his buddy.

”Shut the fuck up man, it”s good that way.”

These guys have become my regular morning crowd, a bunch of rough mountain men in their early twenties, sporting full beards, flannel, and boots. They”re all handsome, tall, and jacked, jostling against each other and smiling at me while they do their best to flirt.

I”m guessing they don”t see a lot of new faces up here, especially not single girls, but none of them do anything for me.

Honestly? I can”t remember the last time I crushed on a guy. Probably back in high school, one of my dad”s friends maybe, or that one hot history teacher I had my sophomore year. My crushes have always been older men and way off limits.

Probably why I got this far without doing much dating.

”What about you, Jake? Sticking with your usual or would you like to try something new today?”

Jake”s cute. He”s taller than his buddies but not as broad as Levi. He”s asked me out a couple of times but I keep brushing him off.

”What do you recommend?” Jake braces his weight on the counter with one hand and leans over. He”s definitely the fuck-boi of the three. He”s smooth and confident and his smiles always start with his eyes. He probably knows a thing or two about showing a girl how things are done, but when I look at him, I can”t see anything more than a customer.

”I”ve been experimenting with a maple sage thing,” I tell him. He always takes whatever crazy thing I recommend, Jake”s become my guinea pig for new drinks.

”Done.” He slaps a bill on the counter and I know he doesn”t want change. I say thanks as I slip it into the cash drawer and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me that I can look at those dimples and green eyes and feel nothing.

The guys continue to jostle each other and grumble behind me while I make Jake”s drink, pulling shots for Adam”s simple order while I”m at it.

The bells on the door ring again and I”m expecting Howard or maybe the guys that work up at the hydro plant on their morning run.

Instead, there”s some grunts and protests. The guys go quiet, making the heavy foot falls on the tile floor sound loud in the small shop.

When I turn back to the counter, it”s not Jake standing there. The boys have moved down to the far end of the counter, about as far as they can get from the man standing in front of me now.

”Thanks, April.”

I hear Jake”s voice somewhere off to my side as he takes the hot beverage from my hand, but I don”t look at him. I can”t. I can only look at the new guy in my coffee shop. All six foot four of him. With the beard and the flannel and the muscles bulging under the plaid cloth and the whiskey hazel eyes making me feel something I”ve never experienced before.

Raine

If I”d knownCane was going to order my ass down the mountain at the ass-crack of dawn this morning, I”d have made my own coffee before I left the house. Better yet, I”d have stayed home and let the lug do his own grunt-work.

Ever since Cane came back home, he”s been bossing me around, giving me more work than I signed on for up at the camp.

But I can”t deny that big bro has made a lot of improvements in the way camp operates and it”s true that somebody has to be the one making the runs down to Slow River when we need lumber or hardware-- God knows Birch McAllister isn”t about to give a Hart a fair price on local wood from the mill here on the Ridge.

The tavern doesn”t open for breakfast till nine on the weekdays and the gas station coffee is barely better than boiled peat moss. Come to think of it, boiled peat might taste better.

The staff up at the camp have been raving about this new coffee place that opened in town and when I drive by, I see the place is open before it”s even six a.m.

Pulling the truck into the parking lot that runs in the front of the building, I have to park way down in front of Eddy and Ginger”s pizza place. Which is, of course, closed right now. There”s already a line of trucks taking up the spaces in front of the cafe.

This is gran”s building. Brick Porter takes up suites eight and nine on one end of the long, ranch style building, with my grandmother”s local history museum at the other end in the first suite.

The new coffee place is in between them, close to the pizza place with just one empty spot between them.

The windows are sporting curtains in a cutesy baby blue gingham check tied back with bows made of burlap and when I open the door, my ears are assaulted by what sounds like Santa”s sleigh coming in for a damn landing.

It”s cheerful as fuck in here. That gingham check and burlap is everywhere, with a few little tables with chairs that look like they”d collapse if I tried to sit in one. There are silk flowers in old Coke bottles on the tables and the whole place looks like one of those Pinterest boards my sister makes for her flower business.

There”s no donuts or muffins in here, just a chalkboard mounted on the wall behind the counter with a drink menu that says everything but ”coffee,” and the cheapest drink I see is six bucks.

I sure as hell never need to step foot in here again, between the expensive, over-priced, citified drink menu and the country-chic decor like we”re in Kansas or some shit and not the damn mountains. Not to mention the line of local assholes pressed up around the counter pretending they know the difference between a cappuccino and an Americano.

Fuck this. I”ll wait till I get to the diner down in Keller”s and grab a to-go order.

I”m about to turn on my heel when I hear it, a throaty, feminine laugh that goes straight to my dick in a way I haven”t felt in years.

”What the fuck, man?” One of the guys says as I elbow my way to the front of the line. When he sees who I am, though, he shuts the fuck up and moves out of the way.

My brothers and I have a reputation on this mountain, everyone up here knows you don”t fuck with the Hart boys unless you”re ready to get punched-- hard. Looks like someone”s already warned these kids about us and no one”s willing to get in a fight before the sun”s all the way up.

She has her back turned to me, working the big espresso machine with an expertise that shows that this is her passion. She didn”t come up here thinking a coffee shop would be a fun business to open after a few years of working at one the big coffee chains that uses automated machinery.

When she turns around so I get a good look at her I can”t think right.

She”s a fucking vision, with bright blonde hair piled up on top of her head and big blue eyes that stare back at me wide and screaming innocence. Like she”s never set eyes on a man before.

A full apron that matches all the checkered shit in here is tied around her waist, accentuating curves that look like they could keep my hands busy for days.

A heart-shaped named tag pinned to the strap that wraps behind her neck says ”April” in happy, girlish handwriting written in silver glitter.

I want to reach over and grab that name tag, scratch out her name and write ”Property of Raine Hart” on it so every asshole that comes in here knows she”s mine.

April holds the drink she just made out for the guy to take, but her eyes don”t leave mine.

It”s the guy that thought he was going to give me shit that steps forward from somewhere off to the side to take the cardboard cup from her.

”Thanks, April,” he mutters as his buddy grabs his drink off the counter where she sets it.

The kids talk to her differently than when I first walked in. Polite but distant as they say thank yous and goodbyes, making sure to keep their distance from me.

If there”s one thing men understand up here, it”s the look on another man”s face when he”s looking at the woman he”s meant to be with forever.