Page 1 of Broken Mountain Man

CHAPTER ONE

Brittany

This was a mistake.

Not just like, oopsI forgot to bring snacksmistake. No. This was anI hate my life and want a refundkind of mistake. The kind you feel deep in your soul, like a cringe that starts in your toes and radiates upward until your dignity calls it quits.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t even blame anyone but myself.

Okay, that’s a lie. I could absolutely blame other people. Starting with my ex-boyfriend—who’d been cheating on me while pretending he was working late. The same ex who’d made me feel like I wasn’t exciting enough, adventurous enough,enoughenough. One breakup, two pints of ice cream, and anI need a reset spirallater... and my best friend Kate had signed me up for this empowering wilderness retreat.

So, yeah, there were people to blame here.

People to blame that I was alone, lost, and very quickly realizing that finding myself might involve also needing to be found by someone else. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

I had been just over a half hour into this so-called empower retreat when I realized I was out of my depth and needed to pee. Badly. But there was no stopping the women ahead of me who were marching through the woods like demented lumberjacks—or would they be called lumberjills?

Either way, I had needed to pee.

And just like that, a quick step off the trail, a little privacy, and suddenly—poof. No trail. No group. No idea where I was, or where the hell I was supposed to be going. The panic hit and I thought I might lose my breath. I spun in a slow circle, seeing nothing but trees and more trees. I checked my phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.

No signal. No bars. Just the mocking glare of my locked screen—me and my bestie at brunch, drinking mimosas and pretending to have our shit together. That photo felt like it was from another lifetime. The confident, smiling woman seemed like a stranger now. I should’ve taken that as an omen. I looked far too confident for someone who would soon be crying over a granola bar in the woods like a damsel in the world’s dumbest fairy tale.

“Okay, okay,” I whispered. “You’re fine. You’re capable. This is nature. You’ve got this.”

But the second my boot squelched in something that was either very wet moss or possibly a frog, I knew I might not be coming back from this.

My inside voice was screaming at me. This is exactly why you stick to air-conditioned spaces and food delivery, Brittany. This is why you take the safe job, live the safe life, and never venture beyond your comfort zone of movie streaming and takeout menus.

I sank down on a mossy log and sniffled. I did a quick mental inventory of what was in my pack. Water. A rain poncho, matches, trail mix, and some granola bars. It was cherry almond. Of course, the universe would give me the one flavor I hated. I would eat it, because this girl wouldn’t be scavenging for bugs to stay alive. One good thing about being a curvy girl lost in the forest was I had plenty of reserves to see me through. Thanks, genetics and my stress-eating habits.

It seemed to be growing darker by the minute and I felt a few drops of rain fall on my arms. Kate had assured me that my nights would look more like glamping than actual camping.

That wasn’t happening, I quickly accepted. I was alone. In the dark.

I took a deep calming breath and tried to focus. Which did absolutely no good whatsoever. It wasn’t as if I could conjure up survival skills by sheer will power.

Just when I was about to start composing my will on a napkin, I heard something rustle behind me. Something big. Something close.

Something that might want to snack on an emotionally unstable woman who didn’t know what the heck she was doing.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I fumbled for another item I knew was in my backpack. Bear spray. I had no idea how to use it but had been assured was super easy—and I’d never have cause to use it.

“Twist, aim, spray,” I muttered. “Or is it twist, spray, run? Do you spray at the bear? Or up in the air? Fucking hell.”

I whispered the last two words, half-convinced my mother would hear them five states away and scold me at my funeral. Good girls did not curse—even in the face of death.

Of course, good southern girls didn’t do a lot of things that I did.

Including about to be eaten by a bear.

The crunching got louder. Every muscle in my body tensed, fight-or-flight kicking in hard. I held the can out like a sword, squinting at the trees.

“Don’t be a bear,” I whispered. “Be a deer. A rabbit. A hiker with snacks and GPS. Maybe a park ranger with a working phone. Please don’t be a bear.”

The branches parted.

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