Snow Much Trouble

Chapter 1

Lauren

“Now that’s a big deck,” I comment as I stare up at my weekend getaway cabin.

It’s a picture perfect mountain retreat, with a big wraparound deck dotted with rocking chairs, and a cheerful red door festooned with a Christmas wreath. It’s nestled into the trees, but perched on a hill so that I can see the view behind is going to be spectacular.

It’s a damn good cabin.

The only thing that would be better about it would be if I were viewing it from the inside looking out. I’m not much of an outdoors-in-December kind of girl. I punch in the code on the cabin door, shivering in the frigid mountain air, and hit the green button.

Nothing happens.

“Seriously?” I try the code again.

Nothing. There is no magical moment like there would be in a movie—where the door glides open in front of me in slow motion while the soundtrack plays a whimsical holiday tune, revealing a festive cabin that will defeat my frustrating bout of writer’s block.

Instead, the wind bites at my face, tugging on my cherry-red scarf and threatening to dislodge it.

My arms ache from hauling my suitcase and three bags of groceries up the icy driveway from my car.

My adorable animal print boots were an incredibly bad choice for rusticating in the woods and I’m not wearing a coat.

I never like to drive with a winter coat on but now I’m freezing my bits off.

All I want is to collapse in front of a roaring fire with my laptop, my guitar, and about twelve mugs of hot chocolate. Preferably spiked.

This is not a great start to a weekend that is supposed to change my life.

On the third try I finally hear a beep and the door gives. “Ha! Take that, mountain cabin,” I mutter as I shoulder it open.

The place smells like cedar and pine-scented cleaner.

At first glance it definitely screams cozy luxury getaway instead of cheap motel, which is my usual travel lodging.

The great room soars two stories high and features timber beams, a rustic stone fireplace, and plush couches that look like they were made for hibernating.

My boots squeak on the hardwood as I step inside, shutting out the savage wind.

Heck yeah, I can work with this.

I’m already picturing myself in joggers and fuzzy socks staring out at the trees as I write the best dang Christmas song country music has ever seen.

Humming a melody I’m testing out, I wheel my suitcase to the bedroom on the main floor.

There’s stairs to a loft and what appears to be several more bedrooms upstairs but I have zero interest in hauling my suitcase up there.

I’m allergic to packing light so my bag is heavy.

Along with various sweaters and joggers and adorable holiday flannel pajamas, I also have a multitude of snacks designed to spark creativity, and a bevy of personal beauty products for some much needed self-care.

My best friend, Avery, has doubts about my ability to rough it solo in the woods for three days, but I assured her I am self-aware enough to know I need working plumbing and a heat source.

This is the opposite of roughing it. This is Jolene Hart’s chalet, and Jolene is country music royalty.

Since she shot to stardom in her late teens, she’s been kicking country ass and taking names in the industry.

While this may be a Smoky mountain retreat, it is not a log cabin in the traditional sense.

It is a luxury chalet and I’m in love with everything about it, from the fancy-pants espresso machine to the two fireplaces to the remote control blinds.

There’s a massive Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, decorated in buffalo check and vibrant pops of red ornaments.

The white lights are twinkling brightly and the fireplace is festooned with swags of fresh pine boughs and red bows.

There are reindeers everywhere I turn, too many to name them, which is usually my first instinct.

“See, I’m not even alone,” I tell the rustic wood reindeer closest to me, who is hovering near the front door like a sentry. “I’ve got you to keep me company, Buck.”

Okay, so I named one. He’s practically life size, what do you expect?

I’m in the bedroom with the massive four-poster bed unpacking my suitcase when I hear something. A whirring sound in the other room. Followed by a creak.

Wait a minute. That’s the door.

I hear heavy footsteps and a decidedly masculine voice muttering, "Holy shit. Now that’s a reindeer.”

I’m assuming whoever the hell he is just met Buck.

This is no good. I specifically asked Jolene if anyone else would be here this weekend. She promised me the chalet would be all mine. Just me, my guitar, and enough holiday inspiration to write the perfect Christmas song for Miranda Leigh's new album.

I’m clutching my hot pink polka-dot pajamas to my chest. Through the open bedroom doorway, I can see into the main living area past the perfectly decorated Christmas tree. Everything about this place screams cozy mountain Christmas.

Except for the mysterious man who's apparently decided to crash my writing retreat.

"Hello?" His voice carries that smooth Kentucky drawl that would sound attractive under different circumstances. Like circumstances where he wasn't potentially a serial killer who somehow has the keycode to my woodsy sanctuary. “Is someone here?”

Damn it. I kicked off my shoes by Buck.

Mystery man knows I’m here.

I tiptoe to the bedroom door and peer around the frame. Sweet Christmas cookies. The potential serial killer is gorgeous and he's standing in the kitchen holding what appears to be a very expensive bottle of bourbon like he owns the place.

He's tall, probably six-two, with dark hair that looks like he ran his fingers through it just to make it look adorably disheveled, which instantly annoys me.

He has broad shoulders filling out a navy hooded sweatshirt.

He's got the kind of jaw that could cut glass and eyes that are either green or hazel.

It's hard to tell from this distance, but they're definitely trouble.

“Um, excuse me? Hi?” My voice cracks slightly, which I will absolutely blame on the mountain air.

“Didn’t expect company,” he drawls, lifting the bottle. “But I’m not opposed.”

"I think you might have the wrong cabin."

He glances around the kitchen. “Nope. Been here before half a dozen times, at least. I’m definitely in the right cabin. Who are you?"

"I'm Lauren Scott.” A heartbeat too late I think maybe I shouldn’t tell the strange, very large man my name.

Not that it matters. He’s in my cabin. I step out from behind the door into the great room, grateful I'm wearing my festive red sweater and not the pajamas I was about to change into.

"I'm staying here for the weekend," I add, very firmly.

He sets the bourbon bottle down on the counter with careful precision. "Well. I’m staying here for the weekend also.”

Now that I’m closer to him, I can see his eyes are definitely green. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Dylan Lennox. Pleasure to meet you. Even if you are crashing my weekend in the cabin.”

“I’m not crashing anything! Jolene Hart told me I could stay here.”

“Chance Rivers told me I could stay here.”

He looks annoyingly sexy leaning against the counter like this is his cabin, his bourbon, his world, and I’ve just wandered into it.

“There must be a mistake,” I say, tugging at my scarf. “Jolene promised me this cabin.”

He just smirks. “Funny. Chance promised it to me. Like I already said.”

A standoff brews, hotter than the gas fireplace in the kitchen that I fired up five minutes ago. My cheeks warm. Dylan Lennox needs to move on down the mountain.

This is supposed to be my writing retreat.

My shot at finally pulling together a Christmas song good enough to pitch to Miranda Leigh.

The weekend where I prove that Rusted Truck publishing house didn’t make a mistake in signing me to be one of their staff songwriters.

That I’m not just the girl writing quirky music about honky-tonk dive bars, but a songwriter who can create a major hit for a major star.

Instead, I’m staring down Bourbon Boy, who looks like trouble wrapped in a hoodie.

Which…he chooses to peel off in this exact moment.

When he tugs it up and over his head, his T-shirt underneath gets caught in the sweatshirt and rides up, revealing rock solid abs.

Damn it, those are nice abs. Definitely trouble. He’s also not saying anything.

Instead, he tossed his hoodie over the back of a barstool at the kitchen island and pulls two glasses down out of the kitchen cupboard.

I cross my arms and try to look intimidating, which is probably impossible when I'm a curvy five-foot-four and wearing a sweater with a sequined snowflake on each breast. I only wore it because I thought I was going to be, you know, alone. "So what do we do now?"

He sets the glasses down and runs a hand through his hair. I was right about the finger-combing. He gives me a charming smile. "We should start with a drink."

I march into the kitchen and eye the bottle. "Is that Pappy Van Winkle?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "So you know bourbon?"

"Somewhat. My ex was obsessed with the stuff. Besides, Pappy is almost an urban legend at this point." I lean against the opposite counter and give him my best skeptical look.

It has sunk in that he’s probably rich. Maybe famous, though probably not, because I don’t recognize his name.

But if he’s friends with Chance Rivers, who is Jolene Hart’s husband and one half of their power recording couple Hart-Rivers, then he knows some folks.

I’m not sure if that’s good or bad but it does have me very dang curious.

"So what's your story? Are you some kind of bourbon collector, or do you just like to travel with ridiculously overpriced alcohol?"

"Neither." He glances at my sweater. “Nice snowflakes.”

That gaze feels like a caress down my entire body. That gaze is dangerous. That gaze screams me writing he-broke-my-heart-in-two-pieces songs a year from now instead of upbeat Christmas tunes.

Determined to resist that gaze, I stare back, waiting for him to continue.

We’re doing it again. A silent stand-off. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a grin he’s trying to contain as his eyes are firmly on mine again.

Finally, he speaks. "I own a distillery. Four Brothers Bourbon, up in Wanted, Kentucky."

Maybe rich. Maybe famous. Definitely trouble. That’s what I can firmly conclude. "Are you one of the four brothers or is this a hand-me-down distillery?"

"Hand-me-down distillery? I thought you said you know bourbon. If we were around for decades, you would know it. We only launched last year. Also, it’s called generational, not hand-me-down.”

Now I’m getting a business history lesson from a house crasher? I roll my eyes at him. “My daddy gave me his old truck when I was sixteen. Should I call that a generational truck?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What is the revenue stream on an old truck?”

“It got me from North Carolina to Nashville so I would say I can’t put a price tag on that.” I’m waiting for him to pour a finger of bourbon but so far he hasn’t. Maybe he’s contemplating leaving the cabin after all. “Which brother are you? In the four brothers?”

“The devastatingly handsome one."

He says it so deadpan that I blink. Lord, this man needs to leave immediately, if not sooner.

“I meant what is your role in the business?”

“I run sales and distribution. I know, I know, it’s not very sexy. My identical twin brother, Ian, is a master distiller, which is way sexier. But I work with what I’ve been given.”

He doesn’t look like he feels the least bit sorry for himself any day of the week. “There are two of you? Plus two additional brothers? Your mother must be a saint.”

“That she is.” He extends a hand like we're meeting at a cocktail party instead of having a territorial dispute in a cabin decked out for the holidays. “Welcome to my weekend getaway.”

I snort. “I was here first, you know.” But I shake his hand anyway. His is warm and slightly rough, like he gets his hands dirty from time to time.

“What do you do for a living, Miss I Was Here First?”

"I’m a songwriter.”

“That would make a hell of a lot of sense since you know Jolene. Anything I’ve heard of?"

That ruins my mood instantly. “Nope. I'm here to write Christmas material, actually." I gesture toward my guitar case, which is propped against the couch. "I have a deadline, and I need absolute quiet and solitude to meet it."

Dylan's eyes light up. "Christmas country songs? I love Christmas songs."

He does have the look of a man who sips bourbon by the fire after driving a Clydesdale-pulled sleigh through a Christmas village. But like the sexy version. The daddy version, as opposed to the dad version.

I’m suddenly way too warm in my festive and mildly inappropriate sweater.

"It's also lucrative if you can write them well." I'm not about to tell him I'm writing for Miranda Leigh. The last thing I need is for word to get out before I've even written the songs. There’s already enough pressure on me.

“Need help?”

He looks like he’s joking.

He’d better be joking.