Taming the Wild Mountain Man (Mountainmances #2)

Chapter 1

1

Tenley

"No, no, nooo," I cry as the heavy box I'm lugging from my car to the front porch starts to give under my fingers. "Hang on," I plead with the cardboard. "I'm almost there?—"

Nope. The traitorous box buckles in my hands before the bottom collapses completely, spilling the contents out all over my front lawn.

Ignoring the pressure building behind my eyes, I let out a sigh as I rifle through shoeboxes stuffed with pens, notebooks, a few candles, souvenirs, and a bunch of other random bits and pieces that have fallen out. I had all my stuff shipped to Mom and Dad's place, and over the past month since I moved to Cedar Crest Hollow, I've been bringing them over to my new place. This is the last box.

A few photos have spilled out of a leather-bound, childhood keepsake album, so I plonk myself down on the grass and begin wiping them down.

I am not going to cry.

All in all, the move has gone reasonably well. I need to focus on all the positive things—like being closer to my twin sister Schapelle and my adorable newborn niece Willow, living closer to my parents, loving my new job running the Cedar Crest Haven lodge—despite the complicated family dynamic I've stepped into—and not on the bad stuff.

I glance up at the run-down, mid-century disaster of a house with a sagging front porch, crooked walls, and faulty pipework. Buying it sight unseen is the most un-me thing I've ever done. I'm Miss Play-it-Safe. Have been ever since I was that little girl who would inspect playground slides, checking for cleanliness and stability, and making sure there were no obstructions at the bottom.

I never make a major decision without roping in my A-grade consulting team of chai tea, oatmeal raisin cookies with a hint of cinnamon, and an Excel spreadsheet.

Until two months ago.

I bypassed my aforementioned A-grade, never-let-me-down-before, consulting team, took a job I got headhunted for by the owner herself, and packed up my life in Florida where I managed a chain of luxury resorts to move halfway across the country to a small mountain town.

Was it to be closer to my family? Was it because I'm having an existential crisis at thirty, happy with my career but wanting to finally put down some roots and start a family? Was it because I'm lonely? My last real boyfriend—if you can call a six-month, sort-of thing a relationship—was well over four years ago.

I huff out another long sigh, place the photos back into the album, and snap it shut. Pushing to my feet, I stare at the monstrosity I will be paying off for the next fifteen years. It's woman vs house, and I don't know how yet, but I will not be defeated.

Take a chance for once in your life, Tenley . I recall the words I said to myself in Florida as I weighed up the purchase.

Well, I took a chance, and I'm now stuck with a house that needs way more work than I realized. I'm in way over my head, and despite Dad's offer of help, I'm not going to take him up on it. I'm an adult. I got myself into this mess, I'm going to get myself out of it.

But my crumbling house is, unfortunately, only one of two major problems I'm dealing with.

My other big issue? Why, that'd be my new neighbor, AKA the world's loudest and rudest mountain man who needs to stop strutting around shirtless and learn some manners. Repeatedly ignoring his friendly neighbor when she greets him over the fence is not cool.

And this is why I don't do things on a whim. It only leads to bad things happening.

"Are you okay?" A deep voice slices through the air.

"I'm fine," I reply curtly, spinning around to face the man standing on the other side of the split-rail fence, its pale-beige patina marking the boundary between our properties.

He's shirtless as usual, the late-afternoon sun lighting up the ridges of his hard, muscular body. He runs a hand through his thick mane of sun-kissed brown hair, staring at me in a way that makes breathing become something I suddenly have to concentrate on. He's got a weathered, handsome face with a few silver strands peppering his thick but well-groomed beard. At a guess, I'd place him in his mid-forties.

I wipe my hands down the sides of my turquoise peacock, wide-leg palazzo pants and lift my chin, summoning all the confidence a woman who has just turned thirty and possibly stumbled into a biological-clock-inspired mid-life crisis a good decade too soon can muster. "And I especially don't need your help."

His silver-blue eyes narrow for a second. "You sure, sweetheart? Because these muscles ain't just for show." He lifts his arm, his massive bicep bulging as he flexes. A rash of heat spreads through my body, which is ridiculous. I've worked my way up from room service to general manager in the hotel industry, so I'm used to dealing with arrogant men who think they can say and do whatever they want. I'm Miss Cool and Calm, able to go toe-to-toe with anyone and stand my ground while remaining professional. But there's something about my new neighbor that gets under my skin.

"I am perfectly fine on my own," I announce, plucking a few items from the ground, tucking the photo album under my arm, and marching toward my slightly crooked front door.

There. Let's see how he likes having someone walk away from him. That's exactly what he did to me on the day I moved in. I spotted him pouring soil into a raised garden bed, so I waved and shouted hello over the fence line.

Nothing.

I checked for earphones, but he wasn't wearing any, so I called out again. Then once more. Finally , he turned around, and when he saw me, he looked…panicked. He stumbled through his backyard and into his house like he was running away from a monster.

My mother taught my three sisters and me not to rush to judgment, so I tried greeting him over the fence a couple more times whenever our paths happened to cross. Each time I did, he flat out ignored me, so I'm done. I don't owe this jerk anything. From now on, I'm channeling my youngest sister Beth's snark and not feeling the least bit guilty about unleashing it on him.

I slam the front door shut, and as I lean against it, I realize I'm out of breath. Why am I suddenly panting?

I put the vase and photo album down on the floor and peer through the curtain. Hume is standing in the same spot. He hasn't moved.

I know that's his name because Annabelle Walters, the famous hotel heiress in her sixties who personally headhunted me to run her family's original lodge—the one that kicked off an empire of boutique lodges around the world—as she prepares to retire, told me. She also said that before he showed up in town seven years ago, Hume Rockwell used to work as a stuntman in Hollywood. He also served in the military, volunteers at the local search and rescue, and runs his own construction company, BDE—Big Deck Energy.

I did not smile when she told me that.

When I enquired, in a polite neighborly way, about Hume's love life, all she said was that he's single and didn't strike her as the 'settling down' type.

A scratching sound from the direction of the back door pulls my attention away from gaping at my shirtless neighbor. I snap my fingers. "Sabine Wren," I say to myself, then walk to the back door, where, as suspected, Hume's beautiful yellow Labrador—and not the skilled Mandalorian artist and weapons expert from Star Wars Rebels —is waiting patiently to come inside.

I open the door and she leaps in, greeting me with a series of playful licks, her eyes sparkling, and her tail thumping against the counter.

"It's good to see you, too, Leia Organa," I say, scratching her behind her ears.

So here's the thing. I don't actually know this dog's name, so I'm cycling through Star Wars characters until I land on one that sticks. "Have you been a good girl?"

She looks up at me with those warm brown eyes that pulled me in the second she came over for the first of many visits the day after I moved in, as if saying, Of course I've been a good girl .

"All right, then." She trots behind me to the pantry where I've stocked up on organic treats from the local vet. "Sit," I say, and Rey Skywalker obediently sits. Ooh, Rey . I like that. It suits her.

I break the treat into a few smaller pieces and feed them to her, smiling as she munches away noisily. It's better than her tearing into the discarded crumpled newspapers I had lying around when she came over on that first visit.

I return to my living room and peer out the window. Hume is gone, which means it's safe for me to resume cleaning up the mess in my front yard. Rey sticks by my side the whole time like the good girl she is.

The dog, I love. Her owner, not so much.