Chapter 2
Amelia
The Ridge Diner looked like something out of a postcard.
It was inside an old log building, so old that the chinking between the logs had started to shrink and chip away over time.
A few pickup trucks sat in the gravel lot out front, their beds dusted with last night’s snow, while a sign flickered over the diner, enticing people in.
I pulled my coat tighter and quickened my pace. The thin fabric was doing absolutely nothing against the mountain air, and I made a mental note to find somewhere to buy a proper jacket before I froze to death.
Florida had not prepared me for this weather.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. Heat wrapped around me instantly. I stood there for a moment, letting it seep into my bones while I took in the space.
A long counter stretched along one wall, lined with stools that had seen decades of use. Booths hugged the windows, their red vinyl seats cracked and patched with duct tape in places.
The air smelled like bacon and coffee and something sweet, maybe maple syrup, all mingled together in a way that made my stomach growl.
By the cash register there was a stack of mismatched coffee mugs and a faded handwritten sign that said, ‘Your Ma Don’t Work Here. Want Caffeine? Grab a Cup’.
It was nothing like the sleek brunch spots I used to frequent in Jacksonville, with their minimalist decor and avocado toast. This place had history. Every faded photograph on the wall told a story.
I loved the place immediately. In fact, I loved the whole town.
Iron Peak was rustic in a way that should have felt rough, but instead felt honest. The buildings weren’t trying to be anything other than what they were.
These were simple structures that didn’t have time for pretense. They were too busy keeping people warm.
It was so different from the contemporary glass and concrete architecture of Jacksonville, where everything was designed to impress rather than to last.
The waitress was busy with a table of older men who seemed to be arguing about fishing, so I wandered toward a wall near the entrance that had caught my eye.
A collection of Polaroid photos was tacked up in neat rows, each one showing a different person holding an empty pie plate with a triumphant grin.
Above the photos, hand-painted letters spelled out “Wall of Fame,” and a small sign below explained the tradition.
When you finished a slice of the Ridge Diner’s famous huckleberry pie, you earned your place on the wall.
My lips curled up as I studied the faces.
There was a mix of families with sticky-fingered kids, adventure seekers suited up in high-tech gear, and people who had to be locals, the weathered mountain folk whose gear wasn’t shiny, but whose faces had stories to tell.
And then my gaze snagged on one photo in particular.
The man in the picture was… something else entirely.
He had dark hair and a thick scruff of beard, and his flannel shirt strained across his chest.
He looked solid. Grounded, like the kind of man who could build a cabin with his bare hands and then carry you over the threshold without breaking a sweat.
I might have swooned in place a little just looking at him.
A business card was tucked next to his photo. I leaned closer to read it.
Grayson Ford. Trail Guide. River Guide. Wilderness Survival Guide. Botany and Ecology Tours. Search and Rescue.
I stared at the card, then back at the photo. Men like this didn’t actually exist in real life, did they?
He looked like he’d walked straight out of one of those wilderness survival movies, the kind where the rugged hero saves the city girl from a bear and then teaches her how to start a fire with nothing but determination and smoldering eye contact.
What would it be like to be fucked by a man like that?
The thought came unbidden, and I let it linger longer than I should have.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I imagined those broad shoulders over me, his solid weight pressing me into a mattress, calloused hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
I yanked my gaze away from the photo and laughed, composing myself. I was really letting my imagination go wild today.
But I wasn’t here to pick up a man. Just a stack of pancakes.
A bulletin board hung next to the photos, covered in handwritten notices that said things like, “Free!!! Ornery Pig Needs Rehoming,” and “Miniature Goats For Sale. One hundred bucks each. Two goats minimum.”
Why would you need to buy two?
“See something you like?”
I jumped and spun around. A woman stood behind me, maybe in her sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and a knowing smile that made me feel completely transparent. She wore a flour-dusted apron and had the kind of sharp eyes that missed nothing.
“Hi there. I was just looking at the pie photos and the ads. Why do you need to buy two goats at a time?”
“They get lonely, hon. They’re pack animals like us.”
“Oh.”
Her smile widened. “I’m Marla Keegan. But folks around here mostly call me Ma. Welcome to the Ridge Diner.”
“I’m Amelia. Nice to meet you, Ma.” I already liked her vibe. “This place is wonderful.”
“Been here forty-two years. Plan to be here forty-two more if my knees hold out.” She glanced at the wall of Polaroids, her eyes landing on the picture of the mountain hottie I’d been examining, then back at me with a glint in her eye that made me nervous.
“You know, it’s your lucky day, Amelia. All my booths are broken this morning. ”
I blinked. “Broken?” How could that be my lucky day?
“Yep. Every single one. Real shame. So I’m doubling up customers.” She was already steering me by the elbow toward the back of the diner. “But don’t you worry. I’ve got just the spot for you.”
Before I could protest, she deposited me at a booth where a man sat alone, nursing a cup of coffee.
He looked up, and I instantly recognized him. It was the man from the photo. His dark eyes met mine, and my breath caught.
The Polaroid hadn’t captured the scar that cut across his right cheek and over the bridge of his nose. It was a jagged pale line against tanned skin that spoke of something violent that he’d survived.
The photo also hadn’t shown the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, earned from years of squinting into mountain sun.
Somehow the man was even more gorgeous in person.
“Grayson here is one of our local guides,” Ma announced cheerfully, as he shifted his eyes to glare at the woman.
“Best in the business. Knows these mountains like the back of his hand. And would you believe it, he’s running a special today.
A free tour for the next tourist who signs up.
” She patted my shoulder. “Isn’t that convenient? ”
“Marla,” the man growled. His voice was deep and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet.
But she ignored him. “Sit! Sit!”
It was impossible to ignore a direct order from the woman, so I settled into the booth across from him.
“Grayson, this is Amelia. You two get acquainted. I’ll bring coffee.” She pointed at Grayson and said, “And you just remember about Brady.”
And then she was gone, swirling away with her apron fluttering behind her, leaving me sitting awkwardly in the man’s booth.
Grayson stared at me, his expression unreadable.
I stared back, my heart pounding, cheeks burning, completely embarrassed and utterly unable to form a single coherent word.
Why was he frowning so hard?
He sat across from me like a stone statue while I stammered, words tumbling out of my mouth to try to fill the silence.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why she seated me here. I can move. There are other booths. I’m sure they’re not actually broken.” I glanced around the diner, my cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your breakfast.”
“Stay.”
The word came out rough, and I froze in place.
He might be a hottie, but he was no mountain hero.
There was a hint of danger lingering around the man, as though he could drag me straight into the woods if he wanted to.