Page 1 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Chapter 1
Ruby
The van heater is running almost full blast, producing a white noise that could lull me to sleep.Not today, Ruby. The weather’s turned and driving has become a little tricky. I reduce my speed even more. Normally, it’s two hours to the distributor’s supply house, two hours back. Right now my mind is having its own little split personality moment. I’m somewhere between “why did I agree to this” and “look at me being a responsible businesswoman.”
The back of mySugarplum Secretsvan is packed with packaged lingerie, body oils, and a handful of new toys that’ll either make my accountant blush or applaud my dedication to customer satisfaction. My shop in Cady Springs, Colorado isfinally picking up in sales and I want to make sure we have everything a girl or couple could want come Christmas Eve.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel and belt out the chorus to “Santa Baby.” Not the demure, breathy version either. I give it full jazz-hands energy. If anyone could see me right now, they’d probably call it a performance. But no one can. It’s just me, the road, and the soft glow of the dashboard reflecting off the snow.
God, the snow. It’s starting to come down like it’s auditioning for a Hallmark movie.
“Okay, easy does it,” I mutter, easing off the gas again. The wipers squeak across the windshield, doing that half-hearted smear thing that saysgood luck seeing anything, sweetheart.
I crank the heat another notch and glance at my bare arms. Yeah, genius move. I’m outfitted in a tank top with no coat, because apparently I thought my internal thermostat could handle freezing mountain weather. It usually can. I always run hot, even in December. That’s why I love these mountains with the crisp air, and cold nights
Except right now? My little heater is losing the battle.
I glance toward the passenger seat, where one box sits. The lid is half-open, revealing a flash of red velour and glittery white trim. I laugh out loud.
“Well, desperate times …” Pulling off the road to the emergency lane, I rip the package open and tug the men’s Santa jacket free. The thing is ridiculously soft, trimmed like a costume for a very confident mall Santa. Not exactly parka material, but it slips over my shoulders easily.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and grin. “Merry freakin’ me,” I say, pulling the faux-fur collar up around my neck.
Pulling back on the road, I feel cute and toasty for about three glorious minutes. Then, a shadow flashes across the headlights.
“Oh no you don’t!”
A deer leaps onto the road, frozen eyes locked with mine. I jerk the wheel. The tires lose traction, fishtailing wildly. The world tilts -- snow, sky, tree, panic -- and the van slides sideways into a drift with a crunch that rattles my teeth.
Silence.
The engine sputters once and dies. The dashboard lights blink out like they’ve given up too.
“Okay,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel. “Minor setback. Nothing a calm, rational adult woman can’t handle.”
My phone screen glows with one flickering bar of service. I fire off a text to my shop assistant—Van stuck. Will be late. SOS? I hit send and watch it spin, spin, then vanish into the ether.
Oh boy!
I exhale, watching my breath fog the air. Snowflakes dance past the windshield, pretty in thatI might freeze to death but at least it’s scenickind of way.
“Well,” I tell the steering wheel, “this is not how I wanted to go viral.”
I can imagine the headlines. Woman found frozen in van wearing Santa clothing and carrying load of lingerie and ‘other items’.
It’s a while and I keep hoping for better cell phone service. Not yet! And the snow is coming down like someone is literally dumping the stuff on this part of the mountain.
Things are very still and quiet here. So quiet that I start to wonder if I’m hallucinating when I hear it. There’s a low, mechanical noise getting closer.
An engine. Not a car. A snowmobile.
A bright headlight cuts through the white blur ahead. The sound grows louder until it’s right outside the van window, then stops.
A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette dismounts, helmet gleaming under the swirl of snow. Whoever he is, he moves with a confidence that says he belongs up here. He’s huge, well over six foot and I can tell he’s built like a tank, even under that snowsuit. I swallow hard, heart thudding.
“Please don’t be a serial killer,” I murmur, “please be Santa’s hot cousin.”
The helmeted figure raps a knuckle against my window. I jump and let out the world’s least dignified squeak.
