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“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.
