Page 1 of My Mountain Man Boss
1
AMY
Seeing my best friend in her wedding dress should make me envious, but all I can think isthank God it’s not me. It’s not that I don’t like Izzie’s fiancé. From the messages we’ve exchanged and occasional video calls over the last few months, Jagger seems like a good guy, even if he is twice her age and a grump.
I’m happy for Izzie. I’m happy for the contented look on her face, the glow on her cheeks, and the excited chatter about starting a family.
But I can’t help the ball of dread in my stomach when I see her in her white dress, so hopeful and expectant. I’ve seen where marriage can lead. If it’s good, it’s great, but when it’s bad, it’s ugly. I don’t want that ugly. No way. And with nearly fifty percent of marriages ending in divorce, I’d rather not take the risk.
I’m not stupid enough to voice any of this to my friend on her wedding day. Who knows? She may be one of the lucky ones.
I tug at my too-tight bridesmaid dress and try to pull it over my substantial chest. Izzie did the best she could with my measurements. I was supposed to be here three days ago for a final fitting. But between staying to help with the harvest, thenan unseasonal storm in Europe causing cancelled flights, my plane didn’t get in until this morning.
I drove straight from the airport to the Emerald Heart Resort where the wedding is taking place and arrived two hours ago. Since then, I’ve been holed up in the bridal suite with Izzie and Chloe, her other bridesmaid. My hair’s been curled and the make-up artist did her best to cover the dark circles under my eyes caused by two flights, jetlag, and a mad dash through mountain roads to get here.
I haven’t seen Mom yet because there wasn’t time to stop at Hope, my hometown at the base of the mountain. I’ll see her at the wedding reception.
Izzie picks up a single string of white pearls from the dressing table and puts them around her neck. Her mother’s pearls. Wordlessly, I take the two ends out of her hands and do up the catch. It’s stiff with age and takes a moment before it clicks into place.
Izzie smooths down the string of pearls as she turns to the mirror.
“She would be so proud of you,” I say softly.
“They were a present from Dad.” She fingers the pearls at her neck. “He gave them to her on their wedding day. He’s been saving them for me.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder, wishing I could take my friend’s hurt and smooth it away. Even cynical old me can appreciate how hard it must be not to have your mother here on your wedding day.
“He must have loved her very much.”
A soft smile plays on her lips. “Oh yeah. Dad was super protective of Mom and always buying her gifts. She was the only one who could make him laugh.”
I chuckle, remembering the hard-ass Mr. Laker of our childhood. I’m two years older than Izzie, but we became friendswhen we both joined the Girl Scouts as kids. We bonded over our love of the mountain and outdoors. When we were little, the age difference didn’t matter, but as we got older her parents weren’t too happy about Izzie hanging out with me and my older friends. I think Mr. Laker was relieved when I turned eighteen and took off to live with my dad in France.
Or maybe he didn’t notice. Amy’s mother had died in an accident two years before, and he was devastated. He kept to his room, and I didn’t see him much, even though I spent a lot of time with Izzie.
I used to stay over at Izzie’s and we’d syphon off a few mouthfuls of his whiskey or smuggle a beer out of the fridge. Then we’d sneak out of her bedroom window to meet up with the local boys and climb the ridge behind his house. We’d sit on the rocky ledge and drink our contraband, passing a single can of beer between us.
Izzie dealt with her grief by rebelling, and I was there for it.
“How is your dad doing?” I’ve often thought about the tragic figure of Mr. Laker, Izzie’s tough ex-military dad, and how he aged overnight. In my sixteen-year-old brain, I thought he was a wildly romantic figure. A powerful man brought down by his grief.
When I thought about falling in love, I always thought about Mr. Laker and his tragic, all-consuming love. That’s the kind of love I wanted. Until I grew up and realized I was just fine without love at all.
Who needs love when you’re living in a vineyard in the middle of France?
Me and Izzie stayed good friends while I’ve been away, but whenever I was back in Hope, she was away at college. I made a special trip one time to see her at college, and our friendship is as strong now as it was when I was eighteen. But I haven’t seen her dad since I left town six years ago.
“He’s good.” Izzie grabs a tissue from a box and carefully dabs at the corners of her eyes. “It’s selfish, but I’m glad he never remarried. I couldn’t handle a stepmom here today. It would be too hard.”
I rub small circles on the exposed skin of her back. The dress drops down, exposing a lot of skin that will drive her soon-to-be hubby wild.
“Was there never anyone?” I’m curious about her father, and it feeds the romantic myth of his tragic loss.
Izzie shakes her head. “Never anyone but Mom. I like that.” She smiles softly. “Theirs was a pure love. It gives me hope.”
I imagine her dad, old and gray, hunched over and worn down by loss, spending his days poring over pictures of his late wife.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and it opens a crack.
