Hawk Valley Mountain Men Box Set

by Mazzy King

  The gorgeous guy from the bar last night, who saw me at arguably my worst, wants to come check on me?

  I haven’t showered, unless you count the downpour I was in three times last night. I’m in sweats, and I’m pretty sure there’s still mascara under my eyes.

  “I’m gonna go freshen up,” I mumble, jumping out of my chair.

  She wrinkles her nose and nods. “Good idea.”

  Among the necessities, my “leave Gary” bag I packed long ago contains jeans, basic tops for various seasons, and a few makeup items still in their packaging. I shower quickly and blow-dry my shoulder-length blonde hair. I still look like death warmed over, so a few swipes of mascara, a little blush, and lip gloss take care of the rest.

  When I head downstairs, I hear voices coming from the parlor I was just sitting in. From the staircase, I crane my neck a little to catch a glimpse. Forrest and Mrs. Morris are having a pleasant conversation, judging by the low murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional chuckle. I crane my neck a little farther.

  He’s even more gorgeous this morning than I remember from last night, probably because I was in such a fraught state of mind. His reddish-brown hair is cut into kind of a hipster style—very short on the sides, a little long on top, combed over with some product. His beard is full, but well kempt. He wears dark jeans and a short-sleeved, light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his impressive biceps, one of which has an intricate black tattoo.

  How did I miss all of that last night?

  I hesitantly descend the rest of the stairs, my Chucks tapping lightly against the wood. Both he and Mrs. Morris turn in my direction, and I can’t ignore the way Forrest’s face absolutely lights up.

  And I can’t ignore the way my heart lights up in response.

  Chapter 4

  Forrest

  “…and that’s how I came to own the bar,” I finish, flipping eggs in the skillet.

  Leila smiles at me over a cup of coffee. “I feel special, being here during closing time. Again. Sorry about that.”

  “Please don’t worry.” I slide her requested over-medium eggs onto a plate with turkey bacon and a toasted croissant. “I’m glad I was here to help you out.”

  She looks better this morning. More rested. Bright-eyed, if still a little troubled. I see no sign of the phone that upset her so much last night. She’s wearing a cable-knit sweater that hangs off one softly curved shoulder, jeans, and sneakers. Much better than the soaked uniform she wore last night.

  Our conversation has been light this morning. I called over to the inn to see how she was doing with the intention of inviting her to the bar for breakfast. Work at my garage is pretty light at the moment, and the bar doesn’t open until four, so I basically have a free day.

  She was my first thought when I opened my eyes this morning.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Hawk Valley?” I ask, cracking my eggs into the skillet. And in such a sad state…

  Leila lowers her gaze to her plate, lifting a shoulder. “Long story.”

  I give her half a smile. “I got time.”

  She pushes her food around on her plate. “My aunt passed away recently.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, reaching out and resting a hand on hers briefly. I have the urge to intertwine our fingers. Instead, I pull my hand back.

  “Thanks. She left me some money. She always believed in chasing dreams because life is short. In her letter to me, she told me to use it to chase my dreams.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say earnestly, scooping my scrambled eggs onto my plate, still wondering how that connects to being in Hawk Valley.

  “It is, but my ex-husband seems to think he’s owed a part of that money. And he’s not. But he’s a dirty son of a bitch. He has a major gambling problem. I think he wants this money to fund a trip to Vegas or pay off some bookies or something.”

  “Gary,” I mutter before I can stop myself, remembering her phone.

  She glances up at me. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I just happened to see your screen last night,” I say hastily. “Swear I’m not a creep.”

  Leila gives me a slow smile. “I have a pretty strong creep-o-meter after all I’ve been through. I wouldn’t be sitting here in an empty bar eating bacon and eggs with you if I thought you were a creep.”

  I pretend to wipe sweat from my brow. “Whew. That’s a relief.”

  Her smile fades. “Last night after I got back to my apartment after work, Gary was waiting for me to talk about the money. He got pretty aggressive with me, so I…”

  Anger bubbles up in my chest. I fucking despise men who think they can put their hands on women. I suddenly have the urge to meet this fuckface.

  “I kneed him in the balls and ran,” Leila finishes.

  My eyes bug. “You—kneed him in the balls?”

  Her cheeks color, but she looks pleased with herself. “Call it a reflex. Something I’ve been wanting to do since we were still married. He was a shit husband.” She shakes her head, and the little glimmer I catch in her deep-green eyes tells me that pain runs very deep.

  It makes me want to pull her into my arms and promise her no one will ever hurt her again.

  Suddenly, it’s a little hard to breathe.

  “I came up here because my aunt used to love coming here,” Leila continues. “This was her happy place, her place of peace. I guess I was looking for some solace last night too.”

  “He know where you went?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “He might figure it out eventually. I turned my phone off. He’s probably so angry I’ve been ignoring him.”

  “Fuck him,” I say with more vehemence than I probably should. Still, I can’t help myself. “Fuck him and his anger. You don’t owe him anything.”

  An amused smile spreads across her face and she lifts a brow. “Does he owe you something?”

  I chuckle ruefully, scrubbing a hand across the back of my neck. “I just—I saw my sister go through some shit with an asshole like that. I hate it. She deserved better. And so do you.”

  Overstep much?

  Leila blushes again and returns to pushing her food around. She tries a bite of the croissant. “Pretty good.”

  I jump on the change of topic. “I get those from the city. Kind of a pain in the ass to have them shipped up here refrigerated, but the customers love them. And they’re tricky to make. I can handle a grill okay, but when it comes to baking, I’m useless.”

  Her pretty, full lips spread into a smile. “I could give you a lesson. I’m a baker. By profession.”

  That explains the uniform from last night. “I wondered. Where do you work? You have your own place?”

  She shakes her head. “I work in a grocery store. That’s actually what my aunt left me the money for—to open a bakery. She believed in me.”

  And her piece-of-shit ex wants to take that away from her. I refrain from saying that out loud. Instead, I walk to the large, industrial-size refrigerator at the back of the room and throw the doors open, revealing shelves of supplies.

  I grin at her. “There’s more where this came from. Teach me your ways.”

  “I’m in heaven,” I say with a groan later that afternoon.

  “Pretty good?” Leila uses her wrist to push a lock of hair out of her face, since her hands are dirty.

  I lick the remnants of blueberry pie off my fork—my third piece—and drop it onto my plate with a clatter. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  We’ve been at it for hours—baking, that is. Well, she did the baking. I just acted as her useless apprentice. Leila decided pie might be a good addition to the menu and whipped up half a dozen of them.

  Well, five now, because I’ve eaten half the blueberry one and refuse to share.

  She grins at me from the other side of the counter as she rolls out more pie dough. It’s amazing to watch her work. She measures nothing, yet all of her ingredients are in precise quantities. She’s efficient and makes it
look so effortless.

  And while she worked, I couldn’t help but notice that haunted look left her eyes, replaced with a quiet joy. I know that feeling well—it’s what fills you when you’re doing something you’re meant to do. I feel that way when I make my beers. I know I’m crafting an excellent product with love and every bit of effort I can muster.

  “Think your customers will like them?” she asks, lifting the round, thick dough and placing it into a pie shell.

  “I kind of hope they don’t.” I push away from the counter and walk around her to the sink. I want a fourth piece of pie. I don’t need it. I don’t I don’t I don’t. “Then I get to keep them all for myself.”

  She tilts her head back and laughs. She’s been doing that a lot since we started baking, and I love hearing it. “I can make you more pie, you know.”

  I lean on my elbows beside her, watching as she ladles cooled pie filling into the shell, then sets the top crust in place. Her nimble fingers whip around the edges, pushing and pinching into a pretty scalloped pattern I would have sworn required some sort of special tool to make.

  With the grace of a dancer in a choreographed dance, she scoops the pie up and whirls around toward the oven, pulls down the door, and pops it in.

  “There,” she says, dusting off her hands. “That makes six for the menu. It’ll probably be too much, but…oh well. This was fun.”

  She catches me staring at her, and her smile becomes a little shy. “What?”

  I straighten and walk toward her, halting when I’m just an inch away. “You have flour on your cheek. On your nose. In your hair.” I reach out to lightly run a finger over the flour trail on her cheek.

  Her breathing quickens. So does mine.

  Leila’s eyes go dark and heated. “Well, you have blueberry in your beard.”

  I draw my lower lip between my teeth. “Where? Show me.”

  She traces her finger just along the edge of my lip. “Here.”

  I tilt my head without breaking eye contact and draw her finger between my lips. The sweetness of blueberry filling coats my tongue. Then I release her finger.

  Leila’s eyes widen and her throat works as she swallows.

  “I better start prepping for tonight,” I say softly. “Kitchen staff’ll be here soon. Friday nights get busy.”

  “Sure,” she says quickly. “I’ll—I’ll help you clean up here.”

  “No way. You did all the work—feel free to go sit down and take a load off. I’ll take care of all this.” Then I realize she might have other things she wants to do. “Or, you know—you can head back to the inn. I don’t want you to think I’m holding you hostage here.”

  Her cheeks are still pink as she blushes. “I don’t think that. But I should probably get back and…check on things.”

  It deeply bums me out that she’s probably going to go check her phone and most likely see more abusive bullshit from her ex. But it’s not my place to say anything about it.

  “If you want to come back later, I’d love to have you hang out,” I say. “Since you made me so many pies, it’s only right you get to sample all my beers. And, anything you want for dinner is on the house.”

  Please, please come back. Please.

  She nods. “I’ll be back. Definitely.”

  Leila gives me a little wave, then heads out of the kitchen.

  When I turn to the sink, I can still taste her finger on my lips.

  Chapter 5

  Leila

  I’m not sure what worries me more—having more hateful messages from Gary, or having none at all.

  When I got back to the inn and turned on my phone, my stomach in knots, I fully expected to see a slew of texts populate the screen. But since the last ones he sent late last night, he hasn’t sent anymore.

  It isn’t that he decided he did too much. He’s persistent and is the type of person who will come at you over and over and over again until you cower and yield. For him to just abruptly stop his onslaught is worrisome.

  Still, I don’t hate not hearing from him.

  I tried to take a nap when I got back to the inn, since I slept like shit the night before. But when I lay down, all I could think about was Forrest gently sucking on my finger. It made my toes curl, made my head spin, and completely discombobulated me. He seemed so casual after, like that’s a common occurrence. But I don’t get the player vibe from him, and he wasn’t wearing a ring. I really needed to leave the bar to get my head on straight after that.

  And he wants me to come back.

  I didn’t plan on spending the day in the kitchen with him, talking about life things. It was interesting to hear about how that city boy turned his back on all he knew eight years ago to go make beer and fix cars in the mountains. He said he’s never known such peace.

  I wonder if I’ll ever find any.

  There’s a small drugstore in town that’s got one of those old-fashioned soda counters. After attempting to nap, I popped in to pick up a few items and decided to indulge in an ice cream soda. Making pleasant small talk with the owner, I learned how much people in town respect Forrest, how helpful he’s been to them in so many ways.

  It only makes that growing attraction I have to him grow more.

  Now, back at the inn in my room, I examine myself in the mirror. I didn’t exactly pack bar-appropriate clothes, but I at least have a pair of low-heeled boots in my bag. I uncap the red lipstick I bought at the drugstore. It complements the gray eyeshadow—another drugstore purchase—I swept on to jazz up my tired eyes.

  Why am I bothering? What’s the objective here?

  My finger. In Forrest’s mouth. The gentle swipe of his tongue that makes me wonder what else he can do with it.

  “You hardly know him,” I scold the red-lipped, smoky-eyed woman in the mirror. She runs a slow hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair, giving it a sexy, tousled look. Her lips curve as she boldly meets my eye.

  I know I want him. It’s time to live for once—just like Aunt Melissa wanted me to do.

  I linger at the bar as the last few people start straggling out. One of Forrest’s good friends, Clayton, smiles at me. His fiancée Savannah—who, I discovered, is responsible for penning a number of songs I love—pats my shoulder.

  “It was so nice to meet you,” she says brightly. “We’ve never met any, er, friends of Forrest’s before.”

  He leans against the opposite counter behind the bar, lifting a brow at Savannah and pursing his lips.

  “She means women,” Clay says bluntly. “Forrest never brings his ladies to meet us.”

  “My what, now?” Forrest says drily.

  Savannah smacks Clay. “Could you not?” She turns to me. “He thinks he’s being funny.”

  “It was funny,” Clay protests.

  “Say goodnight, Clayton.” She puts a hand on her hip and fixes him with a meaningful look.

  He turns to me with a grin that says he’s not at all remorseful for his joke. I don’t mind—he actually is pretty funny. He had me in stitches most of the night.

  “It was great to meet you. You make excellent pie,” he says, shaking my hand. He winks at Forrest. “Thanks for the great beers, For-For.”

  “Get out,” Forrest replies, pointing.

  When Clay and Savannah leave, it’s just Forrest and I, alone in the bar. The kitchen closed an hour ago, and after his two cooks cleaned up, they left for the night. Forrest seems like a pretty chill guy to work for.

  “I like your friends,” I tell him. “For-For.”

  He growls, then smiles. “They seem to like you too. And your pies were a hit. Since there are none left.”

  The bummed-out note in his voice makes me chuckle. “I’ll make you another pie.”

  He glances up from where he’s wiping the bar down. “I wish we could make that a permanent menu item.”

  There’s something else in his voice, something else to his words I can’t quite put my finger on. But there’s also heat in his gaze as he studies me, and ther
e’s no misunderstanding that.

  “I meant to tell you much sooner that you look beautiful tonight,” he adds. He smiles, shaking his head a little. “That red lipstick was really something.”

  I reflexively bring my fingertips to my mouth. Between eating dinner, drinking Forrest’s fantastic beer, and wiping my mouth in between, it’s long gone. “Thanks,” I tell him shyly. Then, for some reason I just can’t understand, I add, “Gary hated it. He said it looked like a messy blob on my face.”

  Forrest says nothing, but his jaw tightens as he continues wiping down the counter.

  I’ve probably annoyed him with my seemingly nonstop references to my ex. “Sorry. I should shut up about him.”

  Forrest throws down the towel he’s using and whirls to face me. “You know what pisses me off?”

  I blink in surprise. “Um…no.”

  He braces his palms on the bar. “That this dick did his best to rip you apart and you feel a need to apologize for feeling the pain he caused you. You don’t owe me or anyone an apology. I just wish he would let you have some peace.”

  “I’m working on that,” I reply quietly.

  Forrest reaches for my hand. “He was a fucking idiot to ruin what he had with you. But at the same time…” His warm brown eyes twinkle at me. “Tell him I said thanks.”

  One of my eyebrows shoot up. “Thanks?”

  “In a way, because of him, I got to meet you.” He trails a finger over the back of my hand. “And that’s been amazing, Leila.”

  I don’t bother to suppress the shiver that shoots over my skin at his touch. He doesn’t miss it.

  “Cold?” he teases, a mischievous gleam in his brown eyes.

  “Quite the opposite,” I breathe.

  He slowly leans across the bar as he trails his fingers lightly up my arm, shoulder, and neck until he brushes my chin. His gaze on mine, he tilts his head deliberately toward me. There’s no mistaking what he wants.