My Broody Mountain Man (Broken Heroes Love Harder #10)

CHAPTER ONE

Griffin

The road stretched dark and empty ahead of me, my truck’s headlights cutting through the night.

The wedding had been fine—good even—but it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Watching my old military buddy tie the knot, seeing him happy, settled, was like looking at a version of myself that had died in a desert a long time ago.

I should be happy for him. Hell, I was. But it reminded me of what I didn’t have.

Most of us came back broken. Some more so than others.

We found ways to survive, patched ourselves up with work, routine, a purpose.

Lone Mountain, Montana had given me that—a job, a home, a reason to wake up every morning.

But at the end of the day, my place was too damn quiet. Too damn empty.

The guys at the wedding were like me. I could see it in their eyes—shadows of old ghosts, the kind that didn’t fade, just lingered.

A few of them had wives, kids even, but that haunted look never really left.

The war had taken pieces of us we’d never get back.

Some of them had patched the holes with love. I hadn’t even tried.

I told myself I was fine alone. It was easier that way. I wasn’t the kind of man who could give a woman a fairytale. I wasn’t prince charming. More like the big, bad wolf.

Except…

The first time I’d seen her had been weeks ago at the diner where she worked.

I’d gone in for something to eat after a long day.

She’d moved fast, balancing plates on her arms, smiling at customers even when they didn’t deserve it.

I’d sat in a corner booth. Watching her, something inside me had shifted. Woken up.

Not gradually. Not the slow creep of attraction that I might have brushed off.

No, this was something else. Something fast and solid that I knew I wasn’t going to shake.

I’d sat in that corner booth that first night for two hours telling myself I was tired, lonely.

That I just needed a decent meal. I’d driven back the next night.

And the next. And the next. Until I’d become a damn regular.

It wasn’t just my body taking notice—though it sure as hell had. Each night after I’d driven home, I’d jacked off, remembering. Remembering the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. The soft curve of her cheek. The way she bit her lip in concentration when she totaled up a check.

Each night, I’d groaned, low and rough, as I’d found my release, images of her flooding my mind. The generous curve of her hips when she walked away. The way her uniform shirt pulled tight across her chest when she reached up to grab something.

I’d lain in the dark staring at the ceiling with the miserable clarity of a man who had seen exactly what he wanted and knew he had no business wanting it.

She was too young. Too sweet. Too good.

I was none of those things.

I was too broken and too damn old for someone like her.

Twelve years. That’s what separated us. Twelve years of wars fought, and sins committed and pieces of myself left in the dirt on the other side of the world.

She was twenty-three with the kind of hope in her eyes that hadn’t been beaten out yet.

I’d lost mine somewhere between my second tour and the third funeral I’d attended in a single month.

A girl like her deserved a man who could match that hope. I had nothing left to match it.

I didn’t need a damn wedding to remind me what I didn’t have.

I pulled into the diner’s parking lot, the sign buzzing above the door.

I killed the engine, sitting there for a long moment, debating whether I should go in.

I knew I shouldn’t, but her face wouldn’t leave my head.

And for the first time in a long damn time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

And then I hated myself for thinking that. Because wanting her didn’t make me any less wrong for her. That made me selfish.

My hands moved on their own, shoving my truck door open. The bell over the diner door jingled as I stepped inside, and the scent of fresh coffee filled the air.

And there she was.

One look and the noise in my head went quiet, even though there was torture in wanting something I had no right to touch.

Her name was Keely Nash. She was twenty-three years old, had no husband or boyfriend—I’d made sure of that, picking up what I could from the gossip that moved through the small-town diner the way water moves over rock.

She lived with her mother, helping raise her two younger brothers.

I’d built the picture of her life piece by piece over these last few weeks.

As I headed to what I now considered my booth, I watched her as I always did. Tonight, she had a pen stuck through her hair and was wearing a white apron over a brown polo and pair of jeans.

She had a build that could bring a man to his knees.

A deep, generous waist that flared into wide, lush hips meant to be gripped hard and bruised.

The cheap denim of her jeans was straining against the heavy, dragging thickness of her thighs.

Thighs that looked like they could take the punishing weight of a man my size and beg for more.

I sat there and hated myself a little for noticing. For the way my hands had gone tight around my coffee mug. For the fact that I was going to come back tomorrow and sit in this same booth and do it all over again.

She was so damn soft everywhere I was hard. Looking at her had my body thickening against my thigh, heavy and insistent. I sat there, waiting for her to come take my order, completely consumed by the urge to strip off her clothes and bury my face between her legs and taste every inch of her.

God, I needed to stop thinking like that. Thinking about her.

But I couldn’t. Something about her drew me in.

Maybe it was because she didn’t give me the wide-eyed look most people did when they saw the scar along my jaw or realized I was one of the men they told tourists about.

The loners, ex-military, ex-cons even, who lived high up the mountain.

We were dark and broody bastards, scarred on the inside and out.

Stay away. That was what the whispers warned.

Which was exactly what I should be doing. Staying away from her.

I folded myself into the worn vinyl seat, back to the wall, sight lines to the door. Two years stateside and I still clocked every exit without thinking.

She finished serving a couple coffee and pie before looking up to see who had entered. A small, welcoming smile curved her lush lips as she walked toward me. I felt that hard pull again, in my gut—on my fucking dick. My blood felt thick, churning with a sudden, sharp need.

“You’re late,” she said, flipping over a white ceramic cup already on the table. “I was beginning to think you’d finally found your kitchen or, heaven forbid, a hobby that doesn’t involve brooding over lukewarm coffee.”

“I was at a wedding,” I said, my voice clipped and sharp. That was what she did to me. Stripped away the thin layer of civilization I’d managed to hold on to. When I was around her, I felt like I was running on animal instinct alone.

“A wedding? Really?” She stood next to me, one wide hip cocked to the side. “And you survived the happiness? The dancing? The feelings?” She clicked her tongue. “Brave man.”

The sass hit me harder than it should have. Most people handled me carefully, like I was something that might go off. She handled me like I was the most entertaining part of her shift.

“It was fine.”

She tilted her head, studying me with those dark eyes like she was deciding whether that answer deserved a response.

“Fine? You’re supposed to give me details. What the bride was wearing. What color were the decorations. If you got hit on by the maid of honor.”

“Decorations were blue. Bride was happy. Maid of honor was drunk.” I picked up my coffee. “I didn’t notice her.”

What else could I say to that? That the whole time I was at the wedding, watching someone get their happily-ever after, I’d been thinking of her?

Dressed in white, in my bed, her body beneath mine as I fucked her?

That I’d thought about her pussy clenching around my cock while she screamed my name into the dark?

I’d thought about it so many times it had stopped feeling like fantasy and started feeling like memory.

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Didn’t notice her, huh,” she repeated, almost to herself.

She should have moved on. The diner was busy and other tables needed her attention. Instead, she reached out and straightened the salt and pepper shakers that didn’t need straightening, her fingers brushing close to mine. She didn’t stand there long. Just long enough that it wasn’t nothing.

Then she caught herself and was gone—ponytail swinging, smiling and chatting with others in the same easy way.

Or was it?

I knew women. I’d had women in my bed. Never for long, but long enough. She didn’t treat me the same way she treated others.

There was something there.

Something I couldn’t let myself give into.

But it was killing me not to. I wanted to pull her down to me, get my hands in that ponytail, and find out what else that mouth could do when it wasn’t spitting out snark.

I took a drink of my coffee even knowing it would be too hot to drink. The slight burn brought me halfway back to my senses, but not enough for me to get up and leave.

Then the door jingled, and four men strode in.

Boys really. They were wearing t-shirts from the local college and they were loud.

Loud in the way young men are when they think the world is a performance.

I tensed, my jaw tightening as one looked Keely over like she was something on the menu.

I reminded myself that I wasn’t her keeper.

That I had no rights whatsoever where she was concerned, but my instincts were flaring.