Mountain Daddy Valentine (Mountain Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

WREN CARTER

I pull into the gravel drive with my headlights off because I learned a long time ago that making noise, taking up space, existing too loudly in this house gets me noticed. Noticed is never good.

The porch light is on anyway. It always is. Like Alex keeps it lit to remind me this is his place, his rules, his watchful eyes, even when he is not standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and that look on his face that makes my skin go tight.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. A text from Talia, my manager at the diner.

Talia: You okay? You looked tired tonight.

I stare at it for a second, then lock my screen without answering. If I answer, I’ll have to lie, and if I lie, I’ll hate myself, and I’m already carrying enough hatred that doesn’t belong to me.

I grab my apron from the passenger seat, shove it into my tote, and take my tips out of the envelope I keep tucked behind my sun visor. I count them once, then again, because counting calms me down. Twenty. Forty. Sixty. A crumpled ten that smells like fryer oil. A few ones. A handful of coins.

It isn’t much, but it is mine. It is hours on my feet and cheap shoes that never stop hurting. It is fake smiles and “sweetheart” and men who look too long at my mouth when I ask if they want dessert.

It is my way out.

The back door creaks when I open it, and I pause, listening. The TV isn’t on. No music. No footsteps. I exhale slowly and slip inside, locking it behind me out of habit, out of a hope I don’t believe in.

The kitchen smells like stale coffee and Alex’s cologne. He wears too much of it. Something expensive and sharp that clings to the air like a warning.

I keep my shoes on as I move down the hall. The floorboards are old, and I know which ones scream. I learned that the way other girls learn dance steps or makeup tutorials. Survival in this house is muscle memory.

My room is at the end, small and plain and barely mine. I close the door, then lean my forehead against it for a second.

Just breathe, Wren.

The mirror on my dresser catches my reflection. Hair shoved into a messy bun. Mascara smudged under my eyes. A red line on my wrist from where my hair tie has been sitting all day. I look like what I am: tired, twenty years old, and running on stubbornness and spite.

I drop my tote on the bed and go straight to the closet. Not because I’m obsessed with money. Because I’m obsessed with the idea of not being here.

I slide my hand behind the old shoebox tucked under a stack of sweaters and pull it out. It scrapes softly over the carpet. My heart does this stupid thing where it jumps like it’s excited.

I flip the lid.

And the world tilts.

For a second, my brain tries to make it make sense. Like maybe I opened the wrong box. Like maybe I moved it and forgot. Like maybe I’m dreaming.

The box is empty. Not mostly empty. Not missing a few bills. But empty-empty. I stare at it until my eyes start to burn. Then I set it on the bed very carefully, like if I move too fast everything will shatter.

My hands shake as I dig through the sweaters, through the closet floor, through the corner where I sometimes shove my purse when I come home too tired to think.

I yank open drawers. I pull out socks and old T-shirts and a photo of my mom that I keep tucked inside a paperback because I don’t trust Alex not to use it against me. Nothing.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the empty box in my lap, and my breath comes too fast. Two years.

Two years of hiding tips. Two years of counting and recounting.

Two years of doing math in my head while smiling at tables.

Two years of telling myself that even if I feel trapped, I am not trapped because I have a plan. That plan is gone.

I don’t cry. Crying feels like giving him something. Like proving him right. Instead, I stand up so fast my knees knock into the bedframe, and I march out of my room with the empty shoebox in my hands like a weapon.

The house is quiet in a way that makes every sound feel loud. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as I head down the hall, past the family photos that don’t feel like family anymore.

Mom’s laugh used to fill this place. The house used to smell like vanilla candles and spaghetti sauce. My stepdad used to whistle while he fixed things. I used to come home and feel like I belonged. Now it smells like cold air and cologne and control.

Alex’s door is half open. Light spills into the hallway. He is in his room like he owns the world, because he thinks he does. He’s stretched out on his bed with his laptop open, one leg bent, one arm behind his head. He looks up when I appear, and his eyes flick down to the shoebox.

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “What’s that?” he asks, like he has no idea.

I step inside without asking. I used to knock. I used to be polite. I used to play nice. My voice comes out sharp. “Where is it?”

His eyebrows lift. “Where’s what?”

“My money,” I say, each word like I’m biting it off. “The money I had saved.”

He closes the laptop with a lazy motion, like I’m an interruption, not a person. “How would I know anything about your money?”

I hold up the empty box. “It was in here and now it’s gone. I checked everywhere. So I’m going to ask you one more time, Alex. Where is it?”

He sits up, slow, like a predator stretching. “You mean the money you’ve been hiding? Thousands of fucking dollars that could have gone to helping fix up this place?”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” I snap. “It was mine. And I help out enough around here.”

He swings his feet to the floor and stands.

Alex is taller than me by a lot, broad shoulders, that same dark hair Mom always said made him look like his dad.

His expression is mild, but his eyes are bright with something ugly.

“You live here,” he says. “You eat the food I buy. You use electricity. Water. Heat. You think all that’s free? ”

My fingers dig into the cardboard. “I pay for my own stuff and half of the bills.”

He laughs once. Not amused. Just… cruel. “Oh, yeah? Those thrift store jeans and your little diner job are keeping the lights on? Keeping the roof from caving in?”

“You don’t even work half the time,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

His face changes. Not a lot. Just a slight hardening around the mouth. “Watch your mouth.”

I hold his stare. My pulse is racing, but anger is a stronger drug than fear. “You took it. Admit it.”

He steps closer. “You shouldn’t have been keeping it from me in the first place.”

The sentence lands like a slap. I blink. “What?”

He shrugs, like we’re talking about borrowed sugar. “I found it.”

“You… found it.” My voice goes thin. “So you stole it.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” he says, and I swear he enjoys the way I flinch. “It’s this family’s money.”

“My parents left you the house,” I say, and the words taste like iron. “They didn’t leave you me. I am not a bill you get to pay and then resent.”

His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, and my stomach turns. Lately, he looks at me like that more often. Like I’m something he owns. Like he’s decided the line between brother and something worse is just a suggestion.

He smiles again. “You’re living here rent free. You think you get to stash money away like you’re planning to leave me?”

“I was planning to leave,” I say, the truth spilling out because there’s no point pretending now.

For a beat, he looks almost surprised. Then his mouth twists like he’s pleased. “Cute.”

I step back. “Give it back.”

“No.”

I swallow hard. “Alex.”

He tilts his head. “If you don’t like it, Wren,” he says softly, “you can leave.”

The words are bait. He says them like he’s confident I can’t. Like he knows I have nowhere to go, like he knows I’ll break before he does.

My hands are shaking so badly the shoebox trembles. “You can’t do this.”

“I already did,” he says. “You want to play grown-up? Then do your part. Help support us. Be grateful I let you stay.”

I stare at him, and something inside me goes very still.

Be grateful? Grateful that he took my money.

Grateful that he lets me exist in a house that used to be home.

Grateful that he’s been circling closer and closer, calling me pretty in that voice that makes my blood run cold.

Grateful that he reminds me every day that I owe him.

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. Not because I’m weak. Because if I stay, I will disappear.

I set the empty box on his dresser with a controlled motion. “You’re disgusting.”

His eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. “You’re disgusting, and I’m done.”

He takes a step forward. “Wren.” The way he says my name makes my skin crawl. Like it’s a warning and a promise at the same time.

I turn and walk out before he can say anything else, because if I stay and listen, I will start to doubt myself, and doubt is how he wins.

In my room, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palm to my mouth.

My whole body is buzzing. Rage. Fear. A grief so old it feels like part of my bones.

Mom died when I was fourteen. The day they told me, I remember thinking the world looked wrong.

Like the colors were too bright, like the sunlight had no business being so cheerful.

I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room with Alex, his face stone, his jaw tight.

I remember clinging to the idea that at least we still had each other. I was so stupid.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor. My head rests against the wood. I can’t leave. Not without money. Not with my car barely running. Not with nowhere to go. But I also can’t stay. The thought comes quietly, like a hand on my shoulder. You can leave anyway.

I wipe my face even though I haven’t cried. My eyes feel hot. My throat aches. I reach for my phone and pull up my bank app. The balance is pathetic. The cash I had was everything. My escape hatch. My oxygen.