Page 1 of Mixed Up with the Mountain Man
one
Emma
Thekeydoesn'twork.
I stand on the porch of what's supposed to be my weekend rental cabin, jiggling the brass key that the listing owner sent me, listening to it rattle uselessly in the lock. After a six-hour drive from Vancouver and the most stressful week of my life, this is not what I need.
"Come on," I mutter, trying the key again. Nothing.
The cabin is exactly as advertised in the listing, with rustic logs weathered to honey gold, wraparound porch with mountain views, red door that should be opening right about now. Even the location matches perfectly. But the key the scammer sent me might as well be a paperclip for all the good it's doing.
I dig out my phone to call the "owner," then remember there's no cell service up here. That was supposed to be a feature, not a bug. "Perfect digital detox," the listing had promised. Right now it feels more like digital torture.
Setting down my overnight bag and the bottle of wine I'd brought to celebrate my escape from corporate law hell, I peer through the front windows. Warm light glows from inside, suggesting someone's home. Maybe there's actually a real owner who can help sort out this mess.
I knock on the door, loud enough to be heard over the mountain wind.
Heavy footsteps approach from inside. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
My breath catches in my throat.
The man filling the doorframe is enormous. He’s six-foot-four of solid muscle wrapped in work jeans and a flannel shirt that stretches across shoulders broad enough to carry trees. Dark hair, thick beard, and hands that look like they could snap lumber in half. Everything about him screams dangerous, except for his eyes—forest-green and currently staring at me with surprise.
Holy hell.
"Can I help you?" His voice is a low rumble that does things to my insides.
I force my brain to function. "I'm Emma Hartley. I thought I rented this cabin for the weekend? The key doesn't seem to work."
Those intense eyes narrow slightly. "Rented from who?"
"Someone calling themselves R. MacKenzie." I pull out the confirmation email on my phone. "I have the paperwork right here."
He takes my phone, studying the screen with growing tension in his jaw. When he looks up, something dangerous flickers in his expression.
"Ma'am, you've been scammed." His words are clipped, direct. "This is my cabin. Name's Leo MacKenzie."
The world tilts sideways. "Your cabin?"
"Fifteen years." He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter with an annoyed sigh. "Come in. We'll sort this out."
Every instinct screams at me to get back in my car and drive away. I'm alone in the mountains with a stranger who looks like he wrestles bears for fun. But something in his eyes makes me trust him.
Against all common sense, I step inside.
The interior takes my breath away. Soaring ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace crackling with warmth, furniture that manages to be both masculine and inviting. Personal photos on the mantle confirm this is definitely his home.
"Coffee?" He moves toward the kitchen with easy familiarity.
"Please." I set down my things, trying to process this disaster. "So I'm definitely screwed."
"Looks like." He glances back at me while starting the coffee maker. "Can I see the full listing?"
I pull up the rental site on my phone, and he studies it with increasing anger. The photos are definitely his cabin, down to the red door and mountain views.
"Bastards," he mutters, scrolling through the fake listing. "They even used photos from my insurance assessment last year. Probably scraped them from some database."
"This happens often?"
