No Gentle Giant by Nicole Snow

1

No Gold Rush Town (Felicity)

There’s one rule, and one rule only, that holds steady in my life.

When things are going too good, it’s got to be bad.

Some folks win the lottery. They find love, fortune, fame, whatever they’re after, and it comes to them nice and easy-peasy.

Like putting in a mail-order for happiness and getting it delivered right to their front door—a shiny golden lump of giddy perfection, all signed, sealed, and delivered.

But for me?

Nope. That gold’s always turned out false, ugly, and made for fools.

And I’d be a ginormous fool to believe my current run of good luck isn’t about to turn around and kick me in the face with a karmic force that could rival a bull.

So, maybe that’s why I don’t know what to do with the fact that business at my little café is just about jumping through the roof.

The steady stream of happy customers, from regulars to tourists, just keeps coming.

Solid revenues that keep me in the black instead of familiar crisis red.

It’s shaping up to be a nice little nest egg—no pun intended, when my place is actually called The Nest—left over from the run of winter snow bunnies.

Plus, my latest side venture. Roasting my own beans and selling them online at a premium markup is going pretty well. Even with the discount I give my friend Clarissa Regis to keep the new Chicago branch of her expanding Sweeter Things shops well supplied, co-branding as Sweeter Grind.

I should be overjoyed. Breaking out a birthday party kazoo. Toasting my fortune with a strong tropical drink that has a fun roller coaster for a straw.

With all the trouble I’ve had just keeping the lights on at The Nest...this is a freaking miracle, and I should be freaking out with joy.

Instead? I’m looking over my shoulder with bated breath.

Just waiting for that other shoe to drop like a thundering jackboot.

Sooner or later, it always does.

Trust me.

This won’t last.

I’ve kinda learned to enjoy the little moments I have before they’re torn away from me.

If living in the moment is a survival mechanism, then it’s serving me well. This temporary calm right here, right now, has me pretty content.

The soft lights illuminate the intimate little clusters of customers gathered around for a little chatting and a lot of coffee. The fragrant scents of their brews—from bitter dark to blond and sugary-sweet—fill the café from wall to wall.

Call me weird, but I can smell every last nuance of my drinks, and remember what touches created that exact smell.

That little sprinkle of nutmeg and the dash of vanilla in a foamy cappuccino.

The heavy cream making that latte a little smoother, a little richer, a little closer to heaven.

The precision needed to make a dark roast that strong and bold, not bitter and burned.

It’s the little things that make sure my customers enjoy their experience, and never forget the first sip that left them jonesing for more.

It doesn’t matter if the drinks are disposable, gone faster sometimes than the time it takes me to actually make them.

Everyone who comes to The Nest feels like coming home when they catch that aroma, that taste, that special vibe.

Which is why I’m squinting, working on getting the taste juuust right for Andrea Silverton’s whipped mint mocha freeze when the bell over the door jingles, announcing a new customer.

I can’t look up just yet, not until I pile the whipped cream on top in a perfect cone of frosted mint-coffee dream. I narrow my eyes and give it a finishing swirl before I come back to earth.

“Ta-da!” I say, pushing the coffee shake across the counter.

Andrea, Blake’s punky purple-haired daughter, grins at me.

I don’t see that Clark boy with her today. But I give it about ten minutes before he’s here to steal her off into a corner where they’ll sit with their heads together, giving each other moony looks—until Blake comes to drag her home, pick up his wife, and ever-so-reluctantly give Clark a ride, too.

He’ll warm up to the boyfriend eventually, right?

He’s got plenty of time to try, considering his wife, Peace, is in here almost every night, strumming her guitar and serenading a very thirsty crowd.

“Thanks, Feliss,” Andrea says, flashing me a peace sign and a wink, irreverent as always. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house tonight,” I tease. “Your stepmom’s my best entertainment.”

Andrea grimaces, glancing over at where Peace Silverton perches on a stool, fingers plucking softly on the strings. Her voice rises in a soothing, hypnotic melody over the murmurs of the crowd. “Jeez, enough with the stepmom stuff. She’s my friend.”

“Okay, babe. I’ll stop reminding you what a dirty old man your dad is.”

“Felicity!” Andrea sputters, swiping up her drink and going red to her ears.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” I have mercy, though, especially since I have customers waiting. Laughing, I shoo her off and snag a towel to wipe down a few drops of condensation off the gleaming lacquered bar. “Go steal a seat before they’re all gone.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, and I pull up a smile for my next customer. I start to open my mouth—only to realize it’s a fresh face.

A kid, maybe eleven or twelve.

This dark-haired, gangly, raw-boned boy who looks like he’s just growing into his hands and feet.

Someone new here in Heart’s Edge but who’s already made himself at home, considering he’s been adopted by the town’s local oversized marmalade lump.

Mozart the cat trails after him, twining around his ankles and mewing loudly.

The boy looks down with the devotion of someone who’s trying not to trip over his feet or the purr-ball.

On second thought, I think I’ve seen him a couple times recently? Might’ve served him sodas for a dollar.

I never got his name before he was gone, ducking his face beneath his shaggy fringe of hair and alwaysfidgeting with a camera dangling from his neck by an adjustable strap.

But this is the first time I haven’t seen him alone.

A few seconds later, there’s another jingle of the bells on my door, and a tall, bulky shape I outwardly call Mr. Cold Brew strolls inside.

Inwardly, there’s only one name that truly fits—Cold Brew the Barbarian.

I’m not exaggerating.

Almost seven feet tall, with biceps bigger than my head, I don’t think he’d even need a hilariously big fantasy-novel sword to eat an army of evil brutes for breakfast. Just a really big spoon.

He’s one tall, dark, and deliciously mysterious drink of whoa, mama, perched on two honed columns for legs that would probably scare the most shredded kangaroo on the planet.

...look, I never said I had a promising career as a stand-up comedian, did I?

Seriously, Alaska Charter hasn’t been in town that long. But he’s made one banging dent on every single woman’s midnight fantasies, including—especially—mine.

Just long enough to leave an impression that hits my lady-bits like lightning.

Just long enough to notice when he disappeared for the winter, too, after months of seeing his tall, loping stride bust through the door every day while he worked on that big construction project in the valley.

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.

Faster than I can say it, really, though you can bet it’s popping out of my mouth over and over again as I dive through the barrage, trying to get to the kid.

Mugs come smashing down everywhere, exploding like little bombs of sharp-edged shrapnel, but right now I’m less worried about my investment and more about protecting the skinny body careening toward the starbursts of jagged dagger pieces littering the floor.

After this, I’ve really gotta rethink my pet policy.

I grab for the boy just as he’s about to hit the floor, hooking my arm around his waist and slinging him against me as I twirl.

There’s no way I can stop us both from falling, but at least I can take the brunt of it.

I know it’s going to hurt.

I don’t care.

I just brace, pinch my eyes shut, and prepare for a fractured elbow, only hoping a ceramic blade doesn’t pierce a vital organ.

But when something hits me, it’s not the stabby mug fragments.

It’s a brawny arm, twined around my waist like a steel cable, yanking me away from the floor so hard it rips the breath out of me.

My eyes fly open.

Alaska.

He’s grabbing even as his knees hit the floor, bowing forward and wrapping me in his shield of a body until I’m cocooned in him and the kid gets cocooned in me.

Holy hell.

I’ve never felt so surrounded by pure body heat before.

I stare up into his shockingly calm canyon eyes with my heart on fire.

My breath comes in rapid shudders while the debris settles, the last of it bouncing off his broad back before hitting the floor and bursting apart in puffs of porcelain powder and shiny marbles.

It’s been a storm of noise. The sudden silence feels like a gunshot.

Everyone’s staring, frozen around us—except Mitch, who’s got Momo by the leash, fighting to wrangle the boxer under control and dragging the excited dog outside as gently as possible.

Mozart’s left the crime scene.

Typical.

But I’m not looking for the cat.

I’m looking up at the Everest of a man holding me in his arms, wondering why I feel like I’ve just been lit with a triple espresso, lashing my blood into an electric rush.

“You okay?” he rumbles breathlessly.

God. Am I?

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or his son, and I’m suddenly too freaked to answer. Especially when I realize I’m gripping the boy like he’ll break if I don’t hold him together.

With a startled sound, I relax my grip and yank my hands back.

But he’s got his arms wrapped in a chokehold around my neck, his face buried in my shoulder.

Something goes soft and weird inside me.

I never had any younger siblings, and my family’s so scattered and thinned out. Even Ember Caldwell, my cousin, is someone I only got to know better later in life...so I’ve never known what it’s like to have a child clinging on for comfort.

It gets me all worried and warm—and after a tentative look at Alaska, I rest a hand on the kid’s back.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re not hurt, are you? It’s okay. The Great Eruption’s over. Think we might’ve bothered the Yellowstone Caldera, though.”

There’s a sniffle.

Then a muffled voice, miserable and soft. “...but I...I broke your stuff. You’re not mad?”

“No, I...” I pause.

Technically, I guess I should be mad, huh? I mean, I don’t have that much disposable income, and a major profit margin just crash-landed on the floor. I’m just relieved everyone’s okay. “Do I look mad, kiddo? What’s your name?”

“Eli,” he mumbles.

“Eli,” I correct myself, and can’t help smiling.

Never mind how Alaska’s still holding me, almost keeping me locked in a stereotypical damsel-in-distress save pose.

Or that the entire shop’s looking at us.

Concert over. Even if Peace turned into the hybrid reincarnation of Elvis and Aretha Franklin, she couldn’t have kept the crowd’s attention through the flying mug drama.

Now there’s an upset kid craned against me, and I’ll worry about the rest later.

Eli lifts his head slowly. Underneath the mess of hair—he’s doing that feathery forward-swept hair helmet thing that was popular ten years ago—he’s got deep walnut eyes. Just like his dad, and they’re wide and wet and mournful now, heavy with guilt.

“I’m not mad,” I whisper. “Promise.”

“Y-yeah?”

“They’re just mugs,” I say, and keep my smile, hoping it’s reassuring. “No one got hurt, and that’s all that matters.”

“Elijah,” Alaska murmurs—coaxing, gentle, but firm. “What do we say?”

“I...I’m sorry, ma’am.” Eli rubs at his eyes. “And I...” He looks around, then, his eyes bleak as they widen with horror. “Um, I don’t know if my allowance is enough to pay for all this.”

“You’ll be working it off for the rest of your natural life. Starting with helping me clean up right now,” Alaska counters dryly before those walnut eyes sweep to me.

I tell myself my heart’s just flouncing because I narrowly escaped dying in a mug deluge.

“How much for the damage?” he asks.

“Er.” My face heats like I’m standing over a vat of roasting beans in July. “Could I maybe talk about this on my feet?”

Alaska blinks.

He clears his throat a little too loudly and obviously, harumphing like some giant bear. It makes Eli giggle, peeking at his father from under his hair with a slow, teasing grin spreading on his lips.

“You gonna carry us both like babies, Dad?” Then he turns that grin on me. “He’s strong enough, y’know. I once saw him pick up a whole—”

“That’s enough,” Alaska says gruffly, ruffling Elijah’s hair with one hand.

With the other, he hefts me up until I find my feet on the ground. That’s when I let Eli down and steady him so we’re all standing around awkwardly in the ruins of what used to be my cute little mug tower.

Welp.

Guess there was a reason for that imminent spider feeling that’s been churning in my belly like a runaway train for weeks.

Good luck is a mirage.

Fool’s gold, plain and simple.

Raking my hair back, I twist my lips, tallying up what I spent on this—not just the invoice cost of the mugs, but also the table with the giant crack down the middle, the floorboards I just replaced after those pricks who were after my best friend Libby scratched the whole place up. And now there’s a bunch of gouges in the freshly laid honey-toned ash wood.

Yikes.

I’m not trying to take this guy for every penny when he’s such a gentleman, but I just don’t have the cash to cover this. If he doesn’t mind helping out, then I’ll gratefully take it.

I can’t lose the business.

I can’t.

No one wants to come to a grubby, dingy coffee shop with splintered-up floorboards, even if I’m the only real coffee game in town besides the diner.

Opening my mouth, I turn back to Alaska—only for all the blood that was rushing through me to practically drain right out as I see the wet, dark cascade running down the leg of his jeans.

Blood.

There’s a rip in his denim. A shard of ceramic embedded just below his kneecap, bristling hair and swarthy skin showing past the torn, blood-soaked fabric.

Dear God.

And he’s just standing there looking at me curiously like he doesn’t feel it.

“Um.” I stare at his leg. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Huh?” He looks down, blinking, then frowns and bends to pluck the shard out like it’s nothing but a pesky mosquito.

I have to look away, wincing.

But when I turn back, he’s dropping the bloodied shard on the ground and peeling back the ripped denim to get a better look at the pinkish gash in his flesh.

“Nah. Looks worse than it is. Nicked an artery, I guess, so that’s why it’s bleeding like a faucet. I hardly feel it,” he growls warmly.

I squint at him. “You sure you’re not just doing the man thing?”

He surprises me with a hearty, booming laugh, deep and rolling like all the walls of my heart collapsing in a tumble of boulders.

Crap.

Crap.

Also, crap.

I’m notsupposed to be noticing how handsome he is.

I still value my life, after all.

“I’m fine. I promise,” he says. Those mahogany eyes sizzle, and he looks at me like he already knows me and caresthat I might be worried about him. “You don’t have a personal injury lawsuit on your hands, Miss...it’s Felicity, right?”

“Um. Yes. But no! That’s not what I’m worried about. I just...would you at leastlet me clean that up so you don’t get an infection?” I gesture faintly to the corridor in the back, leading to my office. “I’ve got a first aid kit back there. We can talk about the damages, too.”

He considers me thoughtfully, then nods with an amused rumble. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” My eyebrows lift.

“You tell this one where he’ll find the broom closet.” He jerks a thumb at Eli.

“Hey!” Eli thrusts his lower lip out. “Dad!”

“No Dad,” Alaska says, even if the twitch of his lip says he’s trying not to laugh. “You sweep. I go let the pretty lady bandage me up and bail your butt out. That’s the deal.”

Nope.

I’m not blushing because he called me pretty lady.

Not at all.

Though I’m definitely glad for the excuse to jet as I duck into the back and grab a broom and industrial-sized dustpan, then march them back out for Eli.

“Careful,” I say. “It’s almost taller than you.”

He sticks his tongue out playfully. “Dad says I’m in my growth phase. I’m only twelve. I’ll get bigger.”

“Dad says less trying to be cute to avoid work, and more sweeping, boy.” Alaska ruffles his son’s hair with clear affection, making Eli grin before tossing his head my way. “C’mon. Let’s talk and maybe after I’ll grab a drink. I hear the owner makes a pretty good cold brew.”

“Sure brew!” I chirp. “Sure do, I mean. Uh, you knew that.”

When did I get so tongue-tied? And where’s my awkward turtle trophy?

Okay. Right. My office.

It’s just a few minutes.

It’s just being stuck in a teeny, enclosed space with the man I’ve crushed on since last year.

The same man who’s suddenly making my palms so sweaty they’ll probably slip on something.

I’ve got this.

I’ve got it.

At least I’ve got my regularly scheduled disaster out of the way, though.

So why do I still have this tight dread in my chest that tells me there’s something even worse on the way?

* * *

Even with the music flowing,I feel like everyone in the café watches as Alaska and I head into my office.

Peace moving into her next song doesn’t distract much from the bedlam that just went down. The Nest is half emptied out.

Then again, I’m pretty sure a few of the death glares are from the single lady squad. They’re here in force tonight, putting aside their bitter feelings for me because Peace’s concerts make the perfect atmosphere to meet men.

Love matches by app don’t come easy in small-town Montana.

But part of me worries they’re staring for a darker reason.

Those crappy old rumors.

Even if I’ve never done anything to deserve them, my dad did plenty to taint our family.

And I guess some folks are inclined to think like father, like daughter.

Bad tree. Bad seed. You know the rest.

I mean, considering everyone used to think I was sleeping with a dude for cash before he, um, went and got himself killed...escaping unkind words behind your back takes time.

Some of those whispers hissing across the shop are probably ugly.

About how they think I’ll settle accounts with Alaska behind closed doors, sans the clothing.

It’s less his dark-brown eyes and more the sheer mortification of what people think that makes my face burn as I step into my small, cluttered office. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he can hear them muttering about what a skank they think I am.

Has he heard the rumors already, despite being a newcomer?

Is Alaska wondering about me, too, and trying to figure out how to fend off a rabid, horny mess of a woman?

I avoid looking at him as I round my paper-stacked desk and drag the bottom drawer open to rummage under piles of stuff. Seriously, it’s as bottomless as a granny’s purse, and I tip out three Sweeter Things candy sampler bags before I even get halfway through.

Presto. I finally stagger across the first aid kit buried at the bottom.

There’s only one chair, and as I straighten, I push it around the side of the desk.

“You can sit h—”

I lift my head as I speak—and freeze.

He’s already sitting on the edge of the desk, his good leg propped up and his injured leg extended.

He watches me steadily, like he can see right through me, and my heart gives one of those sharp little lurches again.

I’ve never known a man who can just look at a girl and make her feel completely naked, and I don’t mean the dirty way.

It’s this frankness, this warmth, this curiosity shining in his eyes.

He makes me feel transparent, like he sees all the odd bits of me floating to the surface with every look.

And apparently, he’s just as perceptive as those piercing eyes hint.

Because when I lower my eyes and drag the chair over for myself, he doesn’t even give me a chance to flip the kit open before he says, ever-so-gently, “You’re upset.”

I wince, pushing open the lid and fishing around inside until I come up with an antiseptic pad and rip the top off the packet.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I’m sorry about my son. I promise you, no matter the damage, I’ll cover it. I’m good for the money, Miss Felicity,” he tells me.

“No, that’s not—” I pause, biting my lip so I can focus on pulling the ripped shreds of denim aside so I can see his cut better.

Nothing like a little blood to clear a girl’s head. I take a deep breath as I carefully swab his rough skin.

“Look,” I say. “You’re pretty new to Heart’s Edge, right? But I guess you’ve been around long enough to hear the rumors.”

“Rumors? Not really,” he says. “I worked the valley job over the summer, then went back to Alaska for a while to tie up some loose ends before heading back here. So I guess I missed the rumor mill on my way in and out of town.”

I arch a brow, glancing up at him from under my lashes.

“Back up. You’re from Alaska, and your name’s Alaska?”

Interesting.

A broad grin splits his beard, showing off those pearly whites.

“My real name’s Paxton, but when you work construction, people give you names. Especially if you’re a big dude. They tried out Yukon for a while. Polar bear, too, but that doesn’t work when I’m not old enough to go grey yet.” His chuckle reverberates through me. “Alaska stuck. I got used to it.”

God help me, I’m smiling back like a fluttery fool.

“You look like an Alaska. Not sure you look like a Paxton,” I say. There’s something about him that just sets me at ease—but when I toss the bloody gauze in the wastebasket, rip another one off, and apply it directly to the cut, he tenses.

“Sorry,” I whisper, dabbing at his wound.

“It’s not so bad. I’m just being a baby.”

“...little big for a baby.”

Criminal understatement. In fact, it’s hard not to be aware of just howvast he is when his bulk fills most of the empty space in my office.

“Little big for just about everything, but a man gets used to that, too,” he says with a smile.

Slayed and buried.

You don’t want to know where my mind goes with that.

Here’s a hint.

I’m almost face-first in his lap, so I think a girl deserves a pass for mentally plunging into the gutter.

I clear my throat, blotting away a little more blood and then peering at the cut.

“You’re right. It’s just a surface wound. A little cream, a Band-Aid, and you’ll be fine.”

“Good thing, too. Think the closest thing you have to a doctor in this town is one hell of a cranky vet, right?”

“Doc? He’s not that cranky; he’s just sarcastic. Get him around his wife and kids and he’s a puppy. But Missoula isn’t that far for emergencies.” I dab a little antiseptic cream on the cut, then peel a fresh bandage and plaster it on in a quick swipe. “There you go.”

“Gonna kiss it and make me feel better, too?”

What.

I choke on my next breath before bursting into laughter.

I’m doubled over, clutching my sides, unsure whether his unexpected, deadpan joke makes me want to leap into a hole in the ground or just hyena-laugh my head off.

“Miss Felicity, you okay?” he asks.

“Are...are you sure Eli’s the kid between you?” I throw back, wiping a hot tear off my cheek.

“Every grown man’s just an overgrown boy.” He swings his leg a little, then pats his knee. “But you’re not a half-bad nurse. Already feelin’ better. So what about those rumors?”

This time when I choke, it’s on a little bitterness.

“So much for changing the uncomfortable subject,” I whisper.

“Hey, you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t,” he tells me. Simple. Matter-of-fact. Calmly accepting. “But it seems to be bothering you, so if there’s anything I can do to help...”

“Unless you’ve got a time machine hidden in that beard, no. You can’t help something you didn’t do.” I sigh, leaning back and looking up at him. Then I force myself to be honest. “My dad was a messed-up guy, and people around here have long memories. They figure I must be a lot like him, or maybe they just need constant gossip, so yeah. Rumors. About things they think I’ll do with men for money. And since you’ve got a kid, I figured you’d want to know the crap people will say about you coming back here alone with me before they get back to your wife.”

Ugh.

Did that sound like I’m fishing?

Alaska regards me gravely, though there’s no anger, no revulsion. Nothing but that same gentle curiosity, and I wonder why.

Why is he looking at me like he’s...

...I don’t know.

What could he possibly want to know about me to look on with such quiet interest, thoughtful and unwavering?

I get a little relief when he looks away, sweeping his thick hair back with a hand as thick as an ancient oak branch. His eyelids narrow, not quite shuttering, but there’s a pensiveness there.

“We got something in common. You mentioned your old man in the past tense,” he says. “We speak of Eli’s mother in the past tense, too.”

My heart jerks and goes spinning down in flames.

“Oh.” I swallow. “I’m so sorry, Alaska. That was insensitive of me.”

“You’re fine. I imagine it’s as complex as whatever led people to think you turn tricks for side money.” He smiles slightly, shifting his thick mass of a beard as black as coal in his fingers. “People can be so unkind, can’t they? What you do, with who, for whatever reasons...that’s nobody’s business but your own. I doubt there’s a lick of truth behind those rumors, but I’ll tell you something. Eli and I aren’t so fragile that we can’t handle a little mud flying.” He grins, suddenly brightening that hint of melancholy. “That kid lovesgetting dirty. Just ask him about dirt bikes.”

“You’ve got the dad jokes down, all right.” I laugh incredulously. “You really don’t let much get to you, do you?”

“I worry about what needs worryin’ about, Miss Felicity.” He shrugs, hefting those mountains for shoulders like they weigh nothing, pulling his shirt tight against his chest in creases of cotton strained to its limit. “Frankly, I don’t think your misplaced reputation needs any fussing over.”

I’m not expecting the quiet, easy way he says it.

So sincere.

So kind.

I’m definitely not expecting the way my throat closes up, my eyes prickling with heat.

Look, I’ve had a stressful few months. Years. Life.

I’m a little on edge, and a little emotionally raw.

But he saves me from having to fumble for words by turning a roguish smile on me, mock-squinting. “You, though. I’ve got my eye on you. I think you could be trouble.”

My laugh this time comes out weaker. “I wish that wasn’t true. I’m kind of a bad luck trap, Alaska.”

“Like an avalanche of coffee mugs?”

“Yep. Just like a mug storm.”

Another silence.

Another smile that makes my heart wobble.

Another long look from him, one that makes me wonder how he went from “coffee girl I vaguely recognize” to a sort of confidante in a matter of minutes. All over some smashed mugs and a cut on his knee.

But, hey, at least I’m not going to break down crying in front of a total stranger because he has mercy on me and changes the subject.

“So what’s the damage, lady? Give me all of it. Don’t forget the table, too.”

“We’ll forget the table. And the floor. Call it pain and injury compensation.” I smile wryly. “We’re at a cool eight hundred for the mugs, though. Manufacturer cost. I’m not charging you full retail.”

“You got it. I’d pay up now, but I’m not carrying eight hundred in cash around with me.” He cocks his head. “I’ll bring it by in the morning unless you want a check? Ladies’ choice.”

“No rush, but cash is fine.”

Too easy. Even if I’m already doubting the wisdom of keeping that much cash around here for more than a day or two, but that’s another problem I don’t want to think about right now.

So I stand, bracing my hands to my knees and levering up.

Of course, I forget not just how small my office is, but how much space Alaska occupies.

As I straighten and lift my head, I find myself practically eye to eye with him, and onlybecause sitting on my desk knocked off like a foot from his titanic height.

I lock up, my heart crawling up my throat as I stare, barely an inch away from our noses touching.

This jittery little fantasy.

It’s not quite insta-love, but it’s bad.

If he didn’t still look so calm and unfazed, I’d probably dissolve into a stammering mess. But it’s like his inner chill stabilizes me, and I’m able to skitter back without tripping, clearing my throat and finding another smile in me.

Somewhere.

“Should we check on Eli?” I tilt my head toward the door. “Either he’s cleaned the whole shop by now or bailed.”

Alaska snorts. “He knows better, but yeah. He’s probably getting a little anxious out there.”

I sweep a mock-bow, pulling the door open for him. “Polar bears first.”

He throws back an evil eye over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna regret telling you that,” he grumbles.

If he does, he’s grinning as he steps into the hall and waits for me to lock up before we head back to the front of the shop.

I’m a little surprised to find the floor’s been neatly swept. Just as we come around the coffee bar, Eli’s head pokes up from behind it, a little disheveled and winded but smiling.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry, I was looking for the trash.”

He dumps out the dustpan in the bin, then leans the broom on the bar and steps out, swiping his hands together. I sweep a look over the floor and let out an appreciative chirp.

“Clean as a whistle. Nice job, Eli.”

“Dad says I have to do things right the first time, or I’ll just wind up having to do them again.” Eli starts toward the table—which has split clean in two, but at least it’s not shattered glass everywhere. “I can push this against the wall.”

“Ah—no, leave that alone.” I hold a hand out, staggering forward. “It’s heavy and I don’t want you to cut yourself. I’ve got it.”

Eli pauses, glancing at Alaska like he’s asking for permission.

Alaska nods.

“She’s right. But—”

Before I can stop him, Alaska’s gripping the heavy table by its polished edges and hefting it up, his arms bunching and straining.

You can bet all the people who were pretending not to stare as we came out are watching him now as he easily maneuvers the pieces out of the way and leans them against the wall next to the door.

I’m watching, too.

I’m stressed out, not dead.

I yank my eyes back from his pectorals to his face as he straightens and nods. “There you go. Anything else?”

“Don’t forget this.” I reach over the bar and snag his full growler jug, swinging it over and offering it to him. “On the house.”

“As gracious as she is gorgeous.” He flashes me a wink and a grin, hooking the handle with a finger. “I’ll be back tomorrow for the crew.” He catches Eli playfully by the scruff of his shirt. “Say good night, Eli.”

“Good night, ma’am!” he belts out, waving as he turns to follow his father.

I watch them go with a smile, then stop as I realize everyone in the café is staring at me. Still.

Ugh.

Peace’s last song just ended—I think she lost her groove with the catastrophe and decided to pack up early with the thinning crowd—but she’s still perched on her stool, hugging her guitar and watching me with a bemused little smile.

“What?” I say, groaning a little as I slip back behind the bar. “C’mon, at least the place didn’t catch fire this time. Get in line! One free drink on the house for everyone—just quit staring.”

There’s a general round of laughter, a little applause.

Honestly, the people here aren’t terrible.

It’s only a few of the uglier ones who like to judge me by my family’s past, but overall the people of Heart’s Edge have been good to me. Kind. Even holding fundraisers to save my café.

And if a few card-carrying members of the Single Lady Vulture Squad want to keep glaring daggers, well...

It’s not like anything actuallyhappened with Mr. Polar Bear.

But my heart’s skipping a heck of a lot over a whole lot of nothing, and that’s just silly.

The evening roundup keeps me busy for nearly an hour, slinging drinks and mentally tallying what costs I’m eating just to keep people’s goodwill and calm the general atmosphere.

It’s not a big deal, though, and it’s soothing for me to put together each drink.

By the time Mitch returns to apologize—this time without the dog, wife, or kids—I’m laughing, teasing Peace.

She claims it wasn’t the ruckus that ended her show early tonight, blaming sore fingers. I know the real reason is the chuckling man pulling her into his arms with a lopsided grin, rocking slightly as he hugs her close, favoring his movements on one leg.

I slide Blake his usual coffee—not that he notices me when he’s so focused on his wife—then turn a smile on Mitch.

“Hey, man. You okay? That was quite a show.”

“Yeah, sure was. I didn’t get hit. Neither did the kids or Momo, thank God. I’m real sorry about that, again,” he says with a sigh. “Didn’t know the cat would be here. Left Momo at home, though. That pup’s way too keyed up. But if you want me to pay anything, I’ll—”

“No way.” I hold up a hand. “It’s covered. We’re good, Mitch. No harm, no foul. Did you still want to order up?”

“Please! If my gal doesn’t get her late-night caffeine jolt, she’s out before the kids.” Then he pauses, braces his hands against the counter, and leans in, dropping his voice as he looks left and right. “Listen, though...after you close up tomorrow, do you think we could talk?”

Uh-oh.

There it is.

My internal warning, sounding red alert.

See, I knew that incident with the mugs was just a fake-out to lull me into a false sense of complacency.

Lady Luck isn’t done screwing me just yet.

I set down the mug I was wiping out, eyeing Mitch warily. “Probably. I can have the part-timers close up if it’s urgent.”

“Not urgent, maybe, but well...I don’t know. Just don’t feel like I should talk about it here. It’s about that car you sold me.”

“Dad’s old junker?”

I blink.

That old truck hasn’t worked right in years. It was just sitting at my place, gathering dust, ever since my father died. It’s practically an antique, which is why I figured selling it for parts was a better idea than spending the money to fix it up myself and sell it to a collector. So I turned it over to Mitch, and figured that was the last I’d have to think about it.

Mitch nods, leaning in closer. “I found something taped under the seat, and I think it was your dad’s. I thought you should have it.”

Every nerve in my body hums.

“What is it?” I ask slowly, even if I’m honestly afraid to know the answer.

Yeah, this is officially worse than I thought.

Anything related to Dad and his dirty deeds is bad, bad news.

I think Mitch knows that, too, or he wouldn’t be so secretive.

He wouldn’t give me the look he does, long and dark and dire.

“Not here,” he says. “I’ll be at the shop tomorrow until midnight. Just knock.”

“Okay,” I murmur, but what I really mean is Oh God, no.

I have enough ghosts rattling my cage.

Please.

Please don’t let Dad’s be coming back to haunt me.