Claimed by the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Mail Order Bride)

CHAPTER ONE

SAMANTHA

I should’ve known better than to trust an app with my love life. Especially one named Mountain Mates —a dating app I’d helped design, no less. I mean, the name screamed desperation, but then, so was I.

Desperate for a change.

Now, here I was, barreling up a winding mountain road, my poor car straining under the weight of my impulsive life decisions. My tiny sedan, bless its overworked engine, was doing its best to drag a silver, metal box of my belongings into the middle of nowhere.

This was fine. Totally fine. Who doesn’t pack up their entire life to marry a stranger they met on a mail-order bride app?

The truth? I’d helped create Mountain Mates as a freelance gig, designing the interface for what the company pitched as a marriage-minded dating service for mountain men seeking their perfect match. Translation? A modernized mail-order bride system for lonely guys living in the middle of nowhere.

I let out a nervous laugh, imagining how this was going to play out. After just a week of chatting—if you could call brief, gruff messages chatting, I’d convinced myself that moving to Lone Mountain, Montana, wasn’t completely psychotic.

Making my profile was supposed to have been research—see how the app worked from a user perspective. That had changed after my ex cheated on me with his totally platonic yoga instructor. Spoiler alert—downward dog wasn’t the only position they’d been practicing. After that, I’d needed a distraction

And a distraction is what I’d gotten. I’d matched with Logan Miller, poster boy for reclusive mountain men.

His profile was minimalistic to the point of being mysterious. One grainy photo of him chopping wood—hello, sexy woodsman—and a two-word bio that read ‘no nonsense.’ Our week of messaging had been equally sparse but oddly charming. He’d seemed genuine, if gruff, and when he’d suggested I visit... well, my lease was ending, my graphic design work was remote anyway, and my bank account was giving me the side-eye about city rent prices.

So here I was, channeling my inner pioneer woman, except instead of a covered wagon I had a U-Haul that made concerning noises every time we hit a bump. The GPS had given up twenty minutes ago, leaving me with cryptic directions like turn left at the big pine tree—which would’ve been more helpful if I could tell one tree from another.

A cabin that I hoped was his, finally came into view just as dusk was settling in, all rustic charm with its wraparound porch and neatly stacked firewood. No welcoming lights though, which was... concerning.

I parked my car and climbed out, my boots crunching against the gravel. The air was sharp and cool, a far cry from the smoggy city I’d left behind. I smoothed down my sweater and straightened the winter coat I’d stopped and bought at a thrift store along the way. Moving from a sunny location, my wardrobe was sadly lacking in winter wear and my bank account was sadly lacking in zeros. Was I sadly lacking in sane behavior?

That would be a very definitive yes.

I took a deep breath and stared at my reflection in the car window. It confirmed what I already knew. My dark hair was a mess. The long drive had left me looking more disheveled than cute. And my curves had not disappeared.

I bit my lip, thinking of Logan’s reaction. It wasn’t as if I’d lied about being curvy. The dating app hadn’t demanded to know physical attributes as some did. Not that I was ashamed of my curves. I’d long ago accepted the fact that society would never see me as perfect. And who wanted to be perfect anyway? Life was so much more fun that way.

That inner wild streak I usually kept under strict control, explained why I was about to knock on the door of a virtual stranger. On a mountain many miles from home. Not that I exactly had a home any longer. The lease on my apartment had ended along with my relationship and my job.

I was free from all commitments.

Except the one I’d made to Logan.

When I’d agreed to be his mail order bride.

Taking a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves, I marched up to the front door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, silently praying I hadn’t somehow found the wrong cabin in the middle of nowhere.

The door swung open, and my brain short-circuited.

A man stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered and shirtless, with damp hair falling across his forehead. His jeans hung low on his hips, and his chest was a landscape of hard muscle dusted with dark hair. I followed that trail with my eyes, down, down…

Even though the picture of him hadn’t been the best, I knew this was Logan.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I was too busy trying not to ogle him like a starved woman at a buffet. Because, let’s face it, my love life had been almost non-existent for years. I did not count my last boyfriend since cheating wiped the slate clean, right? Besides, sex with him was… bland and boring. He certainly did not appreciate my curves.

But Logan? Just looking at him had my lady engine firing on all cylinders.

“Who the hell are you?”

His voice snapped me back to reality. It was deep, gruff, and definitely not welcoming. Those dark eyes—stormy and utterly unimpressed—narrowed at me, and I realized that maybe submitting grainy profile pictures hadn’t been the best idea after all.

“I’m Samantha,” I managed, trying desperately not to stare at his abs while shoving my suddenly fidgety hands into my pockets. “From Mountain Mates ? We’ve been messaging all week about me coming to visit? About... um, possibly...” My voice trailed off. How exactly did one casually mention you’re supposed to be their modern-day equivalent of a mail order bride?

His expression darkened further, if that was even possible. “Mountain what?”

Oh no.

“The dating app?” My voice climbed an octave. “The one for marriage-minded mountain men? Where you swipe left or right to find your perfect mountain match?”

“I know what a dating app is,” he said flatly. “What I don’t know is why you’re on my porch.”

My cheeks burned. “Because we matched? And you—well, someone—invited me here to... discuss our future?”

“Hold on.” He cut me off, running a hand through his damp hair. “ I didn’t sign up for any app.”

Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. “You didn’t?”

“Nope.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But we’ve been messaging for a week. Someone’s been sending me these sweet, if slightly gruff, messages about wanting to share their life on the mountain, and they used your picture. So either you’ve got a twin running around out there, or someone’s catfishing as a very grumpy lumberjack.”

His jaw tightened. “My brother,” he muttered under his breath, sounding both irritated and resigned.

“Your brother?” Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. “Wait—Ethan Miller? The owner of Mountain Mates ? The one who hired me to design the app’s interface?” My brain was working overtime connecting dots I really wished weren’t there. “That’s your brother?”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, which only made his biceps look even more ridiculously large. “The same. And he’s always pulling stunts like this.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What was I even supposed to say to that? I’d agreed to be his mail-order bride, hauled my entire life up a mountain, and burned pretty much every bridge behind me—all because his brother thought it would be funny to play matchmaker?

The reality of my situation hit me like a bucket of ice water. I was standing on a stranger’s porch, in the middle of nowhere, with no backup plan and a trailer full of everything I owned. And the man I’d thought I’d been connecting with all week had no idea I even existed.

Not exactly the best way to start a new chapter in my life.

“Well,” I said weakly, “this is awkward.”