Page 1 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
1
Ellie
If I die out here in the snow, I hope someone at least finds my body with good hair.
The curls took effort this morning. I even used the big-barrel iron and that anti-humidity spray, which—okay, yes, is pointless in a snowstorm, but it made me feelput together. Now the wind is basically slapping me in the face with my own hood while I lug a suitcase up a mountain in boots that were clearly labeled “fashion, not function.”
This is not how I thought today would go.
Then again, I didn’t think my December would involve mystery packages, veiled threats, and being told—very gently, and with deep concern—that I shouldleave town for a while.
And here I am.
On a mountain.
Dragging myself toward a cabin owned by a man who thinks eye contact is a threat.
“I am not scared of grumpy mountain men,” I mutter under my breath, nearly tripping over a tree root disguised as a snow drift. “I watch documentaries. I’ve survived a PTA meeting with four Karens. I can handle one broody ex-soldier.”
I just wish he had adoorbell.
The cabin finally comes into view, nestled in the trees like it’s hiding from the modern world. It’s all dark wood and sharp lines, smoke curling from the chimney. Cozy, if it weren’t for the generalmurderyvibe.
I adjust my scarf, square my shoulders, and march up the steps like this isn’t the most awkward favor I’ve ever called in.
Knock-knock.
Silence.
Knock-knock-knock. “Micah?” I call out, cheerful and breezy like I’m not freezing and internally spiraling. “Hi! It’s Ellie Bright! Your old friend Nate sent me!”
Still nothing.
I glance around for cameras. A sign. Awarning. Anything. But all I get is wind, pine trees, and the very strong feeling I’m about to be eaten by a wolf or a man whothinkshe’s a wolf.
Then the door swings open.
Andwhoa.
He’s bigger than a mountain.
Micah Hunt, in the flesh: tall, broad, jaw like he was carved from frost and regrets. He’s wearing a long-sleeve thermal shirt that clings indeeply unfair ways, cargo pants, and the scowl of aman who’s been interrupted while chopping wood with hisbare hands.
His voice is low and gravelly. “You’re not Nate.”
“Nope,” I chirp. “I’m the Christmas present he didn’t warn you about.”
Micah just stares at me. No expression. No smile. Definitely no Christmas spirit. He steps back wordlessly, like I’m a problem he’ll deal with later.
I wheel my suitcase in. “Thanks for the warm welcome! You really roll out the red carpet for your guests, huh?”
“This isn’t a bed and breakfast,” he mutters.
“It’s fine,” I say brightly. “I brought snacks. You don’t happen to have peppermint hot cocoa and wi-fi, do you?”
He gives me a look that could melt the snow off a roof. “You’re joking.”
“A little.”
