It’s that place everybody knows and barely mentions where the old hotel and older mine shaft—plus a certain evil lair that won’t be mentioned—used to be.
But I didn’t see him for a while and figured maybe he was just a temp or seasonal staff.
Once Holt Silverton got his construction business wrapped up for the season, the big guy went home.
He reappeared a week or two ago, lugging around that huge growler jug he always wants filled to the brim with cold brew, and bearing a laundry list of coffee orders for the entire construction crew.
This time he’s here with that kid in tow—who looks way too much like Alaska not to be his.
Huh.
So the mountain man barbarian’s a daddy.
That’s something I hadn’t picked up through the small-town gossip grapevine.
No point in being a tiny bit disappointed, wondering if there might be a mom, too, who’s going to show up just as suddenly and mysteriously as the boy.
Nah.
Let’s be real.
I never stood a chance with a man who looks like that. Not because I lack confidence, it’s just, you know...
I’ve got a business to run.
It’s also a full-time job competing with the Vulture Squad, AKA every single lady in Heart’s Edge, with their bloodhound instincts for brutally handsome, seemingly unattached men.
I know when to keep my distance, or risk getting beaked.
But that doesn’t mean I mind taking a secretive look as Alaska stops to curl one massive, thick hand around his son’s shoulder, handling the boy with warmth and gentle restraint.
He bends down and murmurs something to the kid, who nods and dips down to scoop the cat up.
They’re lucky Mozart’s lazy and always thrilled to be carried anywhere he can easily walk.
While the kid cuddles the meower close to his chest, Alaska straightens, striding to the counter with his usual metal growler jug.
My eyes flick down and—
Oh. Wow.
The jug’s steely dull grey is almost the same shade as the silvery-grey ink of the sleeve tattoos rippling up his forearms, detailing stylized artwork that looks like a storm captured in raw muscle and graceful lines of total power.
Those muscles twist and swirl, sinew tightening as he sets the jug down on my counter and then lifts his arm. He drags a hand through his hair, pushing the thick mess of black out of his heavily bearded face, exposing the brilliant glow of mocha-brown eyes.
You’d think a beard that thick would hide his face.
Actually, all it does is center how firm his mouth is. How sensuous.
His lips look like they only speak sternness and cruelty and ice-cold commands.
But it’s like he’s always got a hidden smile, waiting to burst out, and when he speaks there’s nothing in his deep, gravelly voice except kindness and this harsh Yankee drawl like he’s always just stepped away from a red-eye shift in a biting wind.
“Evening, miss,” he says politely.
Oh, boy. Behave.
I’m not in the running for either stepmom or sidepiece.
Stop staring at his lips.
At the weathered creases around his eyes, and the way his cheekbones make crags above his beard.
At the way his dark-grey t-shirt clings obscenely tight to his mile-wide chest.
At the way his shoulders and pecs taper dramatically to his narrow waist and the slouch of his jeans on powerful hips that are always too extra.
Too much for me to process when I’m struggling to remember how to speak without hog-tying my tongue.
So while I’m trying to un-jack my brain, I flash him my best welcome-to-my-shop-I-am-a-sexless-coffee-droid smile, and reach for the growler.
“Hey, big guy. The usual?” I ask.
“Always.”
I try not to let his voice dance up my spine.
Even if he’s warm and friendly, Alaska has a way of looking at me that’s almost guarded, as if he’s shielding something behind those glittering russet eyes. I try not to wonder if he’s like that with everyone, or just with me.
“Late night tonight,” he says, casually enough. “I’m handling some delicate wiring work that can’t wait till morning.”
I smile, but I don’t get the chance to answer—to very much not mind my own business and ask what that means for the kid, burying his face between Mozart’s ears and rubbing the cat’s head with his chin.
Because my door jingles again just as I’m finishing up filling Alaska’s growler.
And the worst possible guest comes strolling in.
Mitch, the owner of the town’s auto body shop.
His wife. His kids.
And bouncing ahead of them, Momo, his overly friendly boxer, who immediately lets out a yip, ears pricking at the sight of Mozart.
Crap city.
Incoming disaster in three, two, one, and—
Away we go.
Mozart’s ears whip back first. Then Momo’s tongue flops out, front paws slapping the floor excitedly.
Mozart hisses.
Momo darts at the boy.
Soon, it’s just a flurry of orange fur puffed everywhere as Mozart launches himself out of the kid’s arms, sending his camera swinging against his chest.
He’s smart enough to let the cat go before he gets clawed to ribbons.
Bad news: the dog’s not smart enough to realize Mr. Mozart’s old, territorial, and quite possibly fearless against anything smaller than a Hummer.
Next thing I know, it’s six-shooters at dawn, a cat and dog standoff that makes me think of those old Tom and Jerry skits where Tom quits hunting Jerry long enough to get into it with that big old bulldog, Spike.
I guess the kid thinks the same thing—or at least thinks it makes a pretty neat shot—because he’s backing up with his camera pulled to his face.
And by backing up, I mean backing into the table near the front window.
The same table where I’ve set up a display tower piled high with dozens of brand-new ceramic mugs emblazoned with The Nest’s curling logo in delicate gold leaf against a lovely autumn rust-to-gold gradient.
“Oh, nooo,” I whisper pathetically.
My eyes flick to Alaska for a hot, worried second.
I need to move now if I want to keep my wares in one piece.
But the instant my knees bend, way too many things happen at once.
I dart around the counter.
Momo barks loud enough to practically rattle the windows.
Mozart yowls, tail fluffed for war, and he bats at Momo’s nose before retreating from snapping canine jaws and darts at the kid.
Alaska turns, one hand outstretched, practically in slow-mo.
Mozart hits the kid’s legs.
And I’m one second too late to stop the boy from tangling his feet in Mozart’s bulk, tumbling backward, and plowing into my table full of fragile souvenirs.
If you’ve never seen your life flash before your eyes, try watching a preteen boy’s bony butt hit a circular glass table at just the right angle to tip it up like a seesaw, sending nearly five dozen mugs soaring into the air like they’ve just been catapulted.
Yep.
Welcome to Heart’s Edge, Montana, a magnet for chaos.
Explosions, fires, and all the bad juju. But even if we’ve had everything here but the seven biblical plagues...
I don’t think anyone in the café expects the ceramic hailstorm.
People vacate the tables around the crashing impacts faster than you can say oh, shit.