Bachelor 1: The Grumpy Mountain Man (The Lovesbury Valentine’s Day Auction #1)

Chapter 1

Nova

Nova Jennings is not the kind of girl who steals money and runs.

Not that I stole it. The loan is in my name, which means the wreckage would be, too. I just emptied our shared account before he could gamble my future away.

I’m also not the kind of girl who signs paperwork because her fiancé smiles and says, “Babe, this is for us.”

So… surprise.

Turns out my big new personality trait is “fleeing the scene,” because now the bus rattles down a two-lane road like it’s personally offended by winter, the heater blasting air that smells like burnt dust and someone’s old peppermint gum.

My knees are pressed together, my backpack wedged between my boots, and my purse sits on my lap like it contains a live grenade.

Which, honestly, feels accurate.

Outside, Montana rolls by in postcard perfection.

Fairytale mountains. Thick forests. Snow clinging to pine branches like powdered sugar. Smoke curling out of chimney pipes on scattered cabins. Everything looks clean and quiet and peaceful, like the universe is trying to convince me nothing terrible has ever happened to anyone here.

I keep my forehead close to the glass and pretend the cold can numb my thoughts.

It doesn’t.

My phone is face down on my thigh.

I do not flip it over.

I do not check the time, the signal, the messages, the missed calls. I do not give myself the chance to see his name and feel my stomach drop through the floor again.

The bus hits a bump and my purse shifts. Something inside it thumps against the lining.

The weight is wrong.

The kind of wrong you can feel in your bones.

My throat tightens.

I swallow, stare harder at the snowy trees, and tell myself I’m fine. I’m breathing. I’m upright. I’m moving forward.

Then my brain does that thing it does when you’re trying very hard not to think about something.

It thinks about it anyway.

The memory slides in so smooth it takes me a second to realize I’m not really looking at the trees anymore.

I’m looking at him. At Chase.

Earlier this week, I was at his place, sitting at his tiny kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug of tea I didn’t even want. He sat across from me, knee bouncing, jaw tight in that way that always made me think he was taking life seriously.

He held a folder from the bank like it was a golden ticket.

“We did it,” he said, eyes bright. “We’re finally doing it.”

My stomach fluttered the way it always did when he talked about our future.

We were engaged. We picked out a ring together. He called me his girl in front of people like he was proud. He talked about a house like it was inevitable. He kissed my temple and said, “Soon,” like he was promising me everything I’d ever wanted.

At twenty-two, I had never belonged to anyone in a way that felt safe.

So when he said it, I believed him.

The loan was in my name because my credit was better. We both agreed to that. It made sense at the time.

He told me it was temporary. He told me we’d pay it together. He told me it would be our down payment. Our start. Our proof.

We put the money straight into our shared account.

He squeezed my hand while I signed the papers and said, “I’m proud of you, Nova.”

And I felt ten feet tall.

This morning, I walked down his hall toward his living room, my brain packed with paint samples and Zillow listings and the exact kind of couch I wanted.

I was smiling.

Until I heard his voice.

He was on the phone. He didn’t know I was there. He sounded relaxed, almost amused, like he was discussing something harmless.

“Yeah,” he said. “It hit the account yesterday.”

A pause. A soft laugh.

“No, she’s fine. She thinks it’s for the house. She’s all excited, sending me listings and crap.”

My feet stopped moving.

The hallway turned cold.

He kept talking.

“I just need to clear what I owe. Once I do, I’m good. Then we can worry about her little dream.”

Another pause.

Then his tone shifted into something I didn’t recognize at first. Something sharp and mean under the casual.

“And honestly, if she gets suspicious, what is she gonna do? She never pushes back.”

He chuckled.

“Besides, she knows she’s lucky I’m even here. A girl shaped like that doesn’t have options. She should be grateful someone put a ring on it.”

My lungs forgot what they were doing.

For a second, everything went quiet, like my body was bracing for impact.

He was still talking, still laughing, still being him.

But the version of me standing in that hallway was no longer the same girl who signed those papers.

Heat rose up my neck.

Not the good kind.

The humiliating kind. The kind that made my skin feel too tight.

Because it wasn’t just the money.

It was the way he said it. Like I was a joke he shared with his buddies. Like my curves were a flaw he tolerated. Like my trust was something he could spend.

My fingers curled around the doorframe so hard my knuckles ached.

And the worst part?

I didn’t storm in. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things at his stupid head.

I didn’t do anything dramatic.

I just stood there, silent, because the shame hit first. Heavy and slick, coating my throat.

As a curvy girl, I’d spent years learning how to love my body anyway, how to wear a dress that hugged my hips without apologizing for existing.

But hearing it from the man who proposed to me?

It cut deeper than it had any right to.

And then I did the only thing I could do without falling apart right there in his hallway.

I left.

I walked out of his place and made a beeline for my tiny rental room, the cold air slicing my lungs as I half-walked, half-ran, like if I slowed down for even a second, I’d fall apart.

The second I got inside, my hands started moving on autopilot.

I shoved clothes into my backpack. Sweaters. Jeans. Socks. Anything warm. I grabbed my documents, my charger, my toothbrush, the little bottle of perfume I almost never wore because he always said it was “too much.”

The ring on my finger felt like it was burning.

So I slid it off and left it on the counter.

I walked out of my apartment, heart slamming, and the air outside felt sharper, cleaner.

Like the world was suddenly real again.

I emptied the account in maxed-out withdrawals until the ATM finally refused me. Ten dollars left. Barely anything, but enough to keep the account from screaming empty.

It was our shared account, sure.

But it was my name on the loan. My credit. My risk. My future.

My money.

I stuffed it into an envelope, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the whole thing, then shoved it into my purse and zipped it like I was sealing a bomb.

I went straight to the bus station.

I bought the first ticket leaving the city, not even reading the destination until it printed. Then I sat on a hard plastic chair, clutching my backpack and purse to my chest like armor, and stared at the floor until the announcement called my route.

Lovesbury.

I didn’t pick it.

It picked me.

The memory loosens its grip, and the bus comes rushing back in. The heater clicks. The tires hiss over packed snow.

My throat is tight again.

But this time, I’m already moving away from him.

Forward.

A sign flashes past the window, painted red and white with hearts dangling off the letters.

WELCOME TO LOVESBURY

The bus hisses to a stop. People shuffle out, shoulders hunched against the cold. I follow, my boots hitting the pavement, and the air slaps my face so hard my eyes water instantly.

It’s freezing in that clean, bracing way that makes your lungs feel alive whether you want them to or not.

I blink against the sting and take in my surroundings.

Lovesbury is small-town cozy. Brick buildings with snowy ledges. Twinkle lights strung between lampposts. A main street that looks like it belongs on the cover of a romance novel.

Which feels like a personal attack.

I walk toward the sound of music and laughter and the smell of food.

Heartstone Square is the center of it all, a heated pavilion glowing like a lantern, vendor stalls clustered around it, steam rising from cups and grills. People are bundled up in scarves and knit hats, cheeks pink, hands wrapped around cocoa like winter is a festive hobby instead of a threat.

Everything is decorated for Valentine’s Day.

Red ribbons. Paper hearts. Heart-shaped wreaths.

A diner on the corner has a sign that reads THE WAFFLE DEN, and it smells like coffee and sugar even from here.

There’s a bulletin board near the pavilion entrance, plastered with flyers, bake sale announcements, and something about missing mittens.

My eyes snag on a bright pink page with a bold title.

LOVESBURY VALENTINE FESTIVAL

SPECIAL EVENT: BACHELOR AUCTION

ONE WEEKEND CABIN GETAWAY

PROCEEDS BENEFIT THE VETERANS’ CENTER

My pulse stutters.

One weekend cabin getaway.

Auctioned off.

I scan the photos beneath the text.

A line of men, all rugged and too handsome, wearing flannel like it’s a uniform. Beards. Smiles. Big shoulders. The kind of lineup that makes you wonder if the town’s water is spiked with testosterone.

And then my gaze hits him.

The one who isn’t smiling.

Maverick Rodgers.

He’s standing in front of a log cabin, arms crossed, expression carved out of pure disapproval. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Blue eyes so intense they look like winter itself.

Tattoos streak his forearms beneath rolled sleeves. He has scruff on his jaw. His stance says he’s one bad day away from turning into a warning sign.

He takes my breath away.

And of course, a man like that would never look twice at someone like me.

My throat tightens. My stomach twists.

I force my eyes off the flyer like it burned me, and I take a slow breath.

No.

I am not doing that here.

I’m not giving him, my ex, my fear, my shame, any more space in my head.

It’s a silly idea, but a weekend in a cabin with a local bachelor means distance, locked doors, and someone who knows this mountain better than I do.

And if anyone comes looking?

I won’t be alone.

No, the idea is ridiculous.

My stomach growls, loud and rude, and I remember I haven’t eaten.