2. Felix
CHAPTER 2
FELIX
I roll my shoulders as I sit in the plastic chair, checking my phone for the tenth time in three minutes.
Nothing yet. Damn.
My knee bounces impatiently as I gaze around the room.
The Deepwood Mountain Community Center isn’t much to look at. Outside, it’s a single-story brick building with wide windows and faded blue awnings that have seen better days. Inside, the walls are covered with artwork done by local kids, community event flyers, and framed photos documenting the town’s history. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, bathing everything in a slightly too-bright glow that makes the worn carpet look even more tired and dated.
Still, there’s something undeniably charming and wholesome about the place, with its mismatched furniture and the smell of coffee that is permanently baked into the space. It really is the heart of this small town, where people gather to plan, celebrate, and support each other.
I couldn’t be happier to be here. Just five days in this hidden Montana gem, and I’m already thinking about ways I might be able to stick around beyond the Memorial Day event.
Mainly due to a certain food truck chef.
Another glance at my phone.
She said she’d text if she could make it, but still nothing.
I’ve been to Letty’s food truck every day this week, ordering whatever she recommends. I’ve memorized how she moves and sounds—the way her laughter on Thursday morning sounded like wind chimes when I made a stupid joke about jalapeno-induced tears, the precise way she moves her knife as she slices limes and onions. Every time she leans across the counter to hand me a plate, the generous view of her cleavage and her floral-cinnamon scent short-circuits my brain.
“Yo, Felix,” Troy chuckles, snapping a rubber band off a stack of flyers. “You gonna help set up, or just keep grinning at your phone like a teenager?”
“Sorry, man.” I pocket my phone as I stand, then grab a stack of folding chairs. “Just confirming someone’s attendance.”
Troy raises an eyebrow. “ Someone ? Or a certain owner of the Mariposa Taqueria?”
I sigh. “That obvious, huh.”
“Pfft, it’s a small town,” he shrugs, unfolding a table. “Zoe and I have bets on how long it’ll take you to ask Letty out. I said a week. Zoe gave you three days.”
Blood rushes to my face. “It’s not like that. I thought she could help out. The committee needs people, right?”
“Sure, buddy,” Troy snorts. “And I married Zoe because I needed someone to decorate my house for Christmas.”
I give him a playful shove. “I haven’t asked her out yet.”
“Yes! I’m still in with a chance!” He grins and walks off to fan the flyers on a table near the refreshments.
I set out the chairs, my prosthetic leg working smoothly. Most days I barely notice it. Except when climbing stairs…or running…or when beautiful women look at me with questions in their eyes.
Letty’s gaze had been different. She’d noticed my prosthesis, but there hadn’t been pity in her warm, brown eyes. Just…acknowledgement. Then she’d gone right back to business, treating me like any other customer.
My phone buzzes and I jump, then hastily fish it from my pocket.
On my way. Save me a seat?
My pulse kicks like a .50 cal jamming.
You best.
Shit. I gotta stop hitting send without proofing.
I mean, you bet.
Her reply comes right away.
By 5:55, my palms are sweating as the committee members start filtering in. Deputy Barlow from the Sheriff’s Office. Duke and his wife, Ro. Ro’s brother Max with Ciara, his wife. A couple of librarians whose names I can’t remember. Griff from the general store. A fireman or two. Some people I recognize from the motorcycle shop. Honestly, it’s a great turnout for such a small town.
Then, at exactly six o’clock, Letty walks through the door.
She’s in dark jeans and a flowy cream top that makes her skin glow. Her dark hair falls thick and loose over her shoulders. I’ve never seen it down before, and the urge to run my fingers through it hits me so hard my knees almost give out as I stand.
She scans the room, waving to a couple of the others there, then her eyes find mine and she smiles, her whole face lighting up.
Wow.
She hurries over and I hand her an agenda as she drops into the chair beside me.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Anytime,” I reply, sitting down. Being this close to her makes it hard to think.
Troy claps his hands, starting the evening’s proceedings. I catch very little—whenever Letty’s thigh brushes mine, sparks shoot straight to my cock. I glance at her, but her posture remains the same, her chin lifted as she nods at Zoe’s proposal for a candlelight vigil. Then one of the librarians suggests a children’s choir singing “God Bless America,” and Letty’s nose wrinkles with a flicker of distaste.
I lean closer, inhaling that dizzying cinnamon scent. “Not a fan of patriotic songs?”
Her lips twitch. “My late husband didn’t like it. Always said it was too sappy.”
Husband . The word punches me in the gut. The Marine. The ghost.
She stiffens, like she regrets mentioning him. I want to ask how he died. When. Where. But Zoe’s handing out assignments, and Letty’s gazing straight ahead, her profile carefully composed.
“Felix,” Zoe says, catching my eye. “You and Letty okay handling the tribute display? We need photos of fallen soldiers, bios, maybe personal items from families?”
Letty’s gaze snaps to mine, surprise all over her face. “I’m not sure I?—”
“You’d be perfect,” I say quickly, perhaps too much so. “And I could use the help.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nods. “All right. I’m in.”
“Great!” Zoe says, then adds gently, “and Letty, we’d be honored to include your husband in the display, if you’re comfortable with that.”
Letty nods tightly, and her hands twist in her lap. “Of course. Jason would...he would have liked that.”
A chill runs down my spine, then I shake myself. It’s a common enough name.
The meeting continues, but Letty steals all my attention. She takes copious notes, biting her lip as she concentrates. Just like in the truck, I could watch her for hours.
After the meeting wraps up, everyone heads to the refreshment table. Letty hangs back, examining the list of local veterans we’ll be honoring. I approach her, trying not to get too close.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For agreeing to help with the project.”
She turns, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “It’s important. Jason would want me to help.”
“Tell me about him.” It slips out before I can stop it.
She looks away, her fingers tracing the edge of the paper. “Marine. Force Recon. Stubborn as hell, brave to a fault.” Her voice catches. “Loved college football as much as he hated tomatoes. Died in Afghanistan four years ago.”
I swallow hard. Force Recon. Four years ago. Afghanistan. It can’t be…
“What was his last name?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Gordon,” she says. “Jason Gordon.”
The floor practically drops out from under me. Gordy. My squadmate, and my friend. We all called him Gordy because we had two other Jasons in our unit.
I never knew his wife’s name—he always just called her “ mi vida ” when he talked about her. Never saw photos, either; Gordy was private like that. And I spent our entire deployment going by the name of Reeves, not Felix.
She’s looking at me, confusion spreading across her face at my sudden silence.
“Felix? Are you all right?”
No. I’m not. She’s my dead squadmate’s wife, and she doesn’t even know I was there that day when...
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. “Just... It’s hard sometimes, hearing about the fallen.”
She nods, her hand touching my arm briefly. The contact burns through my shirt.
“We should set up a time to meet for the project,” she says.
“Tomorrow?” I quickly suggest. “The Inn has a conference room.”
“Sure. Six o’clock? I can bring dinner?—”
“ I’ll bring dinner. You’ve already made so many meals.”
She grins. “Fair. Okay, see you then.” As she walks away to speak with Zoe, I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the third name on my list. Jason Gordon. It pulses on the page, almost accusatory.
Jesus. What the hell am I doing?
I should tell her immediately that I knew Jason—Gordy. That I was there. That we served together.
But selfishly, all I can think about is seeing her again tomorrow night. About the way her hand felt on my arm. And about how her lips might taste if I ever got lucky enough to kiss her.
Gordy, old friend, I’m so sorry.
I think I’m falling for your wife.