Matcha-Made by Spring (Seasons in Montana: Spring #8)

1. Kelsey

one

Kelsey

“I ’m going to give it an hour. I can survive anything for an hour. An hour isn’t going to end me…”

Maybe not the best pep talk going into a first date with a mystery stranger, but I have very little reason to believe that this time will be any different to the previous six times Mountain Match has sent me on a merry chase through Wintervale and the neighboring Starlight Springs to meet a slew of unsuitable suitors.

First, there was the much, much older man who wanted to “save” me from my small town life, whisk me off into the sunset and let me bask in the lap of luxury.

Nice, but not my vibe.

Then, there was the college kid blowing through his trust fund. Gorgeous, if you like that cocky, All American type. But I found him too young, too impulsive, too risky.

And then there’d been the university professor who was looking more for a cerebral connection. “A mating of minds,” he’d called it before admitting he didn’t rank physical connection as a priority and considered it a chore.

That wasn’t going to work for me. Not when nothing but tumbleweeds have been blowing between my legs for years now.

It’s long past time to change that, but given the track record of Mountain Match’s picks, I doubt tonight will be any different.

Heaving a sigh, I check out my reflection in the flawless upscale bathroom of Wintervale Resort’s lobby. Everything in here sparkles and shines, including me now that I’ve dusted my face in bronzer, applied broad strokes of blush, and slipped on the jewelry my mama gave me for special occasions.

Not that a first date is a special occasion, really.

I like to make a good impression. If, by some stroke of luck, I am about to meet the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with, I know mama would’ve told me it’s an occasion well worth dressing up for.

I step back and check out the picture I make in the only little black dress I own—one that’s got a sweetheart neckline and a curve-hugging bodice (made smooth and sensual courtesy of some damn rather difficult-to-get-into shapewear)—I have to admit that I clean up pretty good for a woman that’s just finished work an hour ago.

Undoing my braid, I finger-comb my dark auburn hair over one shoulder and bring the tips to my nose for a quick sniff to double check I’m not carrying the scent of countless espresso shots in the strands. Not that I’d mind, of course, but who knows what Mr. Perfect Match would think about that?

Well, if he were as perfect as the Mountain Match matchmaker touted him to be when they called to beg for one last chance, he’d at least tolerate the smell of coffee.

Mr. Perfect would respect my ambition and work ethic. Maybe he’d appreciate that I take an active role in the business I’d inherited from my parents after all three of my brothers decided Wintervale was too much of a small tourist trap town for them to stay in.

Too many out-of-town adventure seekers for my surly loner older brother, Blake. Not the flashy enough for my athletic brother, Mason. And too predictably boring for my thrill-seeking brother, Travis. Even my parents have left to seek adventure in their RV.

I’m sure they’ll all be back someday, but for me? Wintervale is perfect.

Cute and cozy, familiar and famed—even if growing up here hadn’t always been easy. But most of the people who made my childhood years hard have all moved away, into bigger towns and huge cities, all chasing a hustle-bustle life that I’d hate.

For me, the dream is here, on the main street promenade lined with family-owned small businesses, each unique in its own way. And when my parents retired and told me I could do what I wanted with the old cafe, I took that blessing and ran with it, pouring my heart and soul into revamping and remodeling the place while still paying homage to what my parents built.

Brick by brick, I built the life I dreamed of and even held space for my second family to surround me. The only thing missing is someone to help me put down deeper roots with a family of my own.

Love is the one area of my life I’ve never felt I could adequately plan for or make happen. It’s uncontrollable, unpredictable, and ever elusive.

But, it turns out, you can pay someone else to find it for you.

For a hefty fee, of course—one I’m done paying if this last match isn’t as perfect and full of promise as they say.

“Welcome to Wintervale, Mr. Perfect Match,” I mutter as I swipe gloss over my lips and fumble for my phone. With a few taps, I pull up the email from MountainMatch.com to remind myself of Mr. Perfect’s name.

Hunter , it reads.

The name feels promising due to it’s earthy, masculine vibe, like it belongs here, nestled in the pines and between the mountains stretching beyond the wide paneled view afford us by the resort’s stellar location.

I glance over the scant details they’ve sent over attached to the somewhat unusual profile. This one didn’t turn up in my inbox with photographs, they said, because the client valued privacy due to the high-profile nature of their business.

It’s an intriguing note considering Wintervale is the sort of town where the locals know each other’s names, family trees, and dirty laundry. Privacy is a luxury rarely afforded us, so the only conclusion I can draw about this six-foot-three, stocky build man with light hair, green eyes, and a penchant for playing the guitar is that he’s an out-of-towner.

Maybe that’s why he insisted on meeting at the bar inside the resort—the one place in town that’s practically guaranteed to be full of tourists and not locals.

Or maybe Mr. Perfect thinks if things take a particular turn, it’s only a short elevator ride to a bed.

Not something to think about now, though.

Raising my phone in the air, I snap a quick mirror selfie and send it to my sorority sisters along with a text:

Me:

Someone check on me in an hour. If I don’t respond, call the police. This is what I’m wearing and my last seen whereabouts are the Wintervale Resort.

My girls in the Caffeinated Xi Chis chat do not disappoint. Their texts pop as I stride into the lobby.

Dani:

Are you going to a funeral? Why are you wearing all black?

Mel:

Little black dress for sex appeal, duh. Knock ‘em dead, babes.

Sloane:

Remember, Kels, you’re looking for progress. Not perfection.

Dani:

Thought she was looking for perfection. Isn’t that what they promised? A perfect match?

Mel:

In that case, he better be well over the three sixes she looks for—six feet, six figures, and endowed with at least six thick inches!!!

Sloane:

MEL!

Dani:

bwahahahaha

I smile, tuck the phone away, and check my watch. Right on time, I head over to the bar and wave at Dixie who’s working her magic mixing up drinks for a gaggle of women breathless and tanned from their mountain excursions.

Sidling up to an open spot, I do a quick scan of the grounds and don’t see anyone lingering by the restaurant’s entrance looking as if they’re waiting for someone, so I take the opportunity to grab a drink and enjoy the view.

I crook a finger at one of the young, college-age bartenders and order a craft beer. Then, I turn to soak up the view of the snowcapped mountaintops. Though spring is on the way and flowers are starting to bloom all throughout the town, the temperatures have yet to thaw out everything.

Still, more ground is visible on the mountainside now, and above the peaks and the trees, streaks of pink and purple fill the sky. At the familiar, comforting sight of it, I breathe deep.

“That right there is my favorite sight in the whole world,” I say to the bartender when he sets my drink down in front of me.

“Yeah, the mountain is pretty awesome. Great for skiing.”

“I was talking about the sky.”

Then I turn back, intending to soak up more of the view. But this time, my gaze drifts over to a giant, burly man clutching a sport coat over his shoulder and shaking his head at something his companion says. His stature puts the Stetson on his head right in my field of view, but spotting a cowboy hat is nothing new in this town.

There is, however, something about the shape of him that’s both appealing and vaguely familiar. He doesn’t have the sort of trim and gym-trained body I typically see with the adventure seeking holidaymakers who flock here.

He’s rugged. Robust.

Strength and sturdiness emanate from the expanse of his shoulders, the line of his back, the width of his hips when he places an agitated hand on it. He angles his body toward the shorter, thin man before him—who does look like a tourist—in a way that suggests they’re in the middle of a heated discussion.

Whatever they’re talking about has the cowboy twisting his body and lowering his head in exasperation. He rubs his eyes with a hand devoid of a wedding band, and I take the opportunity to drink in his profile. A hint of dad bod, and long, strong thighs that lead down to worn leather boots—all details screaming that he’s just my type. But it’s only when my eyes settle on the way his jeans cling to his spectacularly formed ass that my throat runs dry.

It’s been far too long if just the sight of a big man with a great ass has me wanting to dump my beer down my front just so I can cool off.

Obviously, I don’t do that. Instead, I take a long pull of my beer and keep right on admiring the sights.

If Mr. Perfect doesn’t turn up soon, I might try my luck with the cowboy.

Then, he turns. My gaze locks in on the sizeable bulge in his jeans. I know I’m caught red-handed, and I’m not the least bit sorry about it, except…

Except when my eyes track up to his handsome bearded face, time stops. My throat malfunctions and I choke as recognition and mortification slam into me like a one-two punch.

I spin away, trying—stupidly—to hide, but not before I see the stupefied expression on his face morph into a sinful, sly smirk.

It can’t be him, it can’t be him.

There’s no way I was just caught checking out my childhood nemesis, my teenage tormentor, Scott fucking Hunter. Otherwise known as one of my brother’s best friends, a local boy turned country music superstar. He’s a bona fide celebrity and supposed sex god now, I hear.

I’d snort if I wasn’t currently pounding my chest, trying to loosen the painful constriction in my throat. I’m still coughing hard when I feel the burn of beer making its way into my nasal passage. The thought of it spewing out of my nostrils in front of Scotty, who would surely lord that over me for the next decade, only makes me cough harder.

Soon, strong fingers grip the back of my neck, pushing me forward and bending me in half. Shamefully, I can feel my nipples tighten and a rush of heat pulses between my legs while he whacks me on the back, trying to help.

A minute or two later, the coughing subsides though the utter humiliation does not.

With a raw throat, I lift my head and glare at him through wary, watery eyes. What is he doing back in town? And how dare he come back looking like that ?!

The Scott Hunter I’d known had been on the tall and scrawnier side. Handsome, sure. But this… this cowboy he’s turned into moves with more swagger than the teenager version had. He’s also got a wide barrel chest and come-and-cuddle me center I’d like to rake to nails over and plant kisses on…

If it didn’t belong to someone who’d been a thorn in my side since I was a kid.

What a damn shame.

“Long time no see,” he says in a voice as smooth as whiskey.

Those shale green eyes I’ve known all my life crinkle at the corners as he signals for water. Then he leans in, and the scent of musk and leather wafts up my nostrils, lighting my bloodstream with a fire I’m desperate to stamp out as I clear my throat and thump my reddened chest. “See something you like, huh, Muffin?”

The nickname brings it all back—old memories, scarred wounds—and the effect is like a wave of ice cold slush being shoved down my shirt. I jerk ramrod straight and shake off the heat of his touch as I grip the bar with white knuckles.

I remind myself that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. But it doesn’t matter. Annoyance bubbles under my skin and makes me lie right through my teeth.

“Nope,” I croak. “Not a goddamn thing.”

He chuckles and the sound rolls through me. “Well, now, that’s unfortunate. ‘Cause I’m told the experts say you and me? We’re a perfect match.”

My head swivels hard, eyes popping as a twinge of pain shoots up my neck, and I spit out, “Bull-fucking-shit.”