Haunting the Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #11)

Sabrina

“Don’t look her in the eye,” one woman whispers to another as they scuttle past my shop. “She’ll curse you!”

The other woman glances at me with wide startled eyes and I can’t help but smirk as I wink at the pair. They’re thin, dressed in athleisure wear that costs more than my shop’s rent, and their make-up so carefully natural it took an hour to apply.

Tourists.

“Blessed be,” I say to the pair as they do their best to flee without outright running.

Smiling to myself, I finish setting up the rolling cart. It’s dual sided and loaded down with books that are perfect seasonal reads. Selections include horror, cozy mystery, and monster romance. A literary charcuterie board for the residents and tourists alike.

It’s a gorgeous fall day here in Crescent Ridge. The leaves have changed to shades of red and orange and most have fallen to coat the sidewalk. A few still stubbornly linger high on maple branches but in a day or two the trees will be bare.

Tomes and Tea is my baby. My life’s ambition. The black brick and gothic marquee stands out compared to the quaint pastels of Sugar Crossing and the sleek modern design of Bean There. A little taste of darkness among the vanilla.

I swear on all things beautiful and true. I just sell books and tea. If some of the more fearful and judgmental residents of our small mountain town believe I’m a witch, I don’t discourage it. I lean into it.

All press is good press.

Born on Halloween and named after a television witch, I was always destined to be a Morticia rather than a Jeannie.

The local men avoid me like the plague. Maybe it’s the clothes. Dressed head to toe like a witch three hundred sixty-five days out of the year makes me the odd duck out in my small mountain hometown. Paired with my love for everything macabre, spooky, and haunted? They can’t run away fast enough.

Then there is my plus sized body. Any man who doesn’t run from my personality, takes one look at my tiny breasts and double-wide hips, and dips. They love curves when they’re proportionate or when a woman is stacked on top rather than bottom.

“Bunch of ninnies,” Noel mutters when I come back inside the store. The short blonde is sitting on the solid oak front counter with a cup of coffee from Bean There in her hand.

Fall is my busiest season and winter, especially the lead up until Christmas is hers. She runs her family’s Christmas tree farm on her own, like I do with my bookshop. The key difference is that I love my business, and Noel wants to burn hers to the ground.

Literally.

She’s one of my best friends and another large woman with more curves to love.

There’s seven of us in total. All curvy, all with a love of books, and all absolutely done with the local mountain men.

Years ago, we formed a book club, and bonded over chocolate, our love of fictional men, and a shared disdain of possessive mountain men.

At least it used to be shared. The traitors.

Now, four of my best friends are married to some of the brutes.

Who is the lucky man?” Noel asks.

Out of the seven of us, she’s also one of the unmarried ones. Now with Lynn hitched, it’s us and Celeste left. Celeste isn’t going to send for a groom anytime soon. Her last ex was a real piece of work and she’s not going to be ready to give love another chance for a long time.

“Not sure yet,” I reply before taking a sip of my drink.

Call me a cynic but I didn’t think the marriage pact I made with my friends, was going to hold water. Seven women signing up for mail order grooms so we didn’t have to marry any of the local meatheads? As if.

Then Meredith married Augustus, an awkward tech bro who is obsessed with her.

Janelle married Wesley, a retired boxer who loves being bossed around by his wife.

Madison married Calhoun, a man who looks more suited to being a hitman for the mob rather than a father to their daughter.

And even Lynn, the most rebellious of us, found her soulmate in military veteran Briggs.

Every single one of the men they married look like they were born here. Muscles chiseled from mountain granite with thick beards, tattoos, and more growly than a pack of grizzly bears. Though I like to think they’re the exceptions to the local caveman mentality.

When I jokingly told my friends I would get married on Friday 13th I was stalling. Now? I want that same sugary happiness they’ve found. For a woman born on Halloween twenty-eight years ago, it’s critical I get married on the unluckiest of days.

The clock is ticking down. Hell, I’m out of time. With three days until the 13th there is zero chance I’ll find a guy, hit it off, fly him out to Crescent Ridge, and get married by this weekend.

“I put vegetarian on my profile, and it matched me with hunters, gym bros on the carnivore diet, and a cattle rancher,” I gripe to Noel. “The algorithm is cursed. Where are the broody musicians and tortured poets?”

Every profile is the same man in a different font. I’m ready to admit defeat and give speed dating another try down in Bramble.

“You could not get married,” she suggests. “We could be the single aunties all the kids love.”

“We made a pact, Noel.”

“Not like it was signed in blood,” she scoffs, then quieter, “Some of us already learned the hard way promises don’t mean a damn thing.”

I snap my fingers, pointedly ignoring Noel’s darkening mood.

“Now that would be a good idea!” I shout. “We should totally do that! I have a knitting needle around here somewhere…”

I start to playfully search behind the counter for said needle as Noel’s face pales.

Knitting is a recent hobby of mine, and for the life of me I can’t divine the magic that makes the yarn weave without tangling into knots.

My supplies are at home though, stashed away in a closet where my cats can’t find them.

And even if they were here, I doubt my knitting needle could draw blood. I’m not going to tell Noel though.

“Our original pact is fine,” Noel rushes to assure me. “And think about the others, they would feel so left out if we did this without them.”

I’m sure they wouldn’t. Not even Lynn and she’s more into the metaphysical than I am.

My phone receives a notification interrupting our squabble. It’s a delicate chiming sound unique to one app. One we both know very well. Pearl’s Mail Order Grooms.

I have a match.

Our eyes meet over the counter, and delight sparks in her blue eyes. She might pretend to be a scrooge, but she can’t hide the hope shining bright in her eyes.

She wants someone to love just as much as I do. More even, considering her past. Noel was left at the altar on Christmas Eve last year when her fiancé showed up to their wedding with another woman on his arm. The audacity of that son of a bitch still amazes me.

Abandoning the fake search, I whip out my phone at a speed unseen on the mortal plane.

Someone picked me.

The man’s profile doesn’t offer much. A few photos taken at poor angles, with unflattering filters making them appear like old polaroids, faded, and crinkled.

If these weren’t taken ironically, I’d be sure the man didn’t know how to work a smart phone.

In every single image his face is hidden or obscured.

I should swipe away but there’s something familiar about the man. Or maybe I just like the murder documentary style photos.

The rest of his profile is a mess. No bio and a random assortment of likes and dislikes that are at odds with one another.

He’s an early riser but loves nights spent under the full moon. Wants to be cremated, weird thing to disclose on a dating app, but loves cemeteries. Then there’s his taste in music. He must be an audiophile because I don’t recognize most of the artists and the few I do know aren’t touring anymore.

“Kind of creepy, isn’t he?” Noel asks before sipping her black coffee with a grimace.

“No.”

“You can’t see his face at all,” she argues.

“He’s mysterious.”

She blanches but I’m already sending him a message. He’s either a serial killer or bad at social media. Only one thing is certain. He’s not one of the dime a dozen lumberjacks who call this mountain home and right now that’s good enough for me.