One Bed With The Mountain Man (Ozark Mountain Men Temptations #2)

Chapter 1

Rachel

The woman behind the counter at the Silver Pines Lodge was apologetic but firm.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Williams. Your reservation was marked as a late arrival, and when you didn’t check in by six…”

“But I pre-booked the room.” I kept my voice level even as exhaustion rolled through me.

“I completely understand, but we thought you were a no-show. And when you didn’t call to inform us you’d be late, we had to give the room away to the next paying customer,” the hotel clerk drawled in her softest Southern voice.

I could practically hear the silent bless your heart she was throwing my way.

Scanning the woman in front of me, I saw that her name tag said Shelly.

And because I had Southern roots myself, even if I typically tried to hide them, I countered in my sweetest Texas drawl, “But, Shelly, it’s only seven p.m. and I had a credit card holding my reservation.”

She continued as if I hadn’t said a word, “And there’s been a bit of a panic over lodging up here on the mountain. You know, because of the storm damage, so we had to release your reservation…”

“Shelly, hon, I understand. I really do. You must have such a tough job. But can we talk about the fairness of it all? I did book the room before whoever you gave it to. And it’s awfully unfortunate, but do you think I should be the one to suffer the consequences here?”

Then, sounding almost apologetic, I quietly added, “Isn’t there some way we can fix this amongst ourselves? Maybe you have customers in two single units who wouldn’t mind doubling up for a premium discount on their nightly rental. Hm? Just thinking outside the box for you.”

Shelly’s bright smile slipped a little, but she cheerfully chirped back.

“Ma’am, I wish I could help, and I’ll pass on your suggestion to the owner for the future, but tonight we simply don’t have any available rooms. The roofing crews came in yesterday, and with the hail damage repairs, the whole mountain is booked up.

If we’d known you were still planning to arrive, we would have held your room.

Next time, you might consider calling if you’ll be late.

It’s written clearly in our policies that… ”

I sighed. There was no way I was going to talk sweet Shelly here into kicking the roofing contractors out of my room.

Men like that were considered heroes, especially during natural disasters like the one that had happened here.

I’d seen the damage myself as I drove into town. There were dozens of houses that looked like they’d been pelted with golf balls. The insurance claims were going to keep me busy for days.

“There has to be something,” I pulled out my phone, already scrolling through listings. “Another hotel? A bed-and-breakfast?”

“Everything in town is booked solid.” Shelly leaned forward conspiratorially. “But…”

“But what?” I glanced up, curious. The hotel clerk had a lead for me. This is why it was best to lead with sugar instead of spice when talking to customer service people.

“There is one option. Clayton Armstrong. He’s a local carpenter who rents out rooms sometimes. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean and warm if you can put up with a gruff handyman type. The best part is it’s only fifty bucks a night.”

I searched his name on Airbnb and then Vrbo. Nothing came up. “I can’t find a listing under his name.”

“Oh, he doesn’t do the online thing. Strictly word of mouth, cash only.” She was already reaching for the phone. “Want me to call him?”

Cash only. No online presence. Under the table.

Everything about that arrangement made my skin itch. I’d built my entire career on documentation and paper trails. I believed in doing things the right way.

But the only Airbnb listing I could find was three hundred dollars a night, which was seventy-five over my lodging allotment.

I could drive back to Fernwood.

It was the biggest town I’d seen since leaving Tulsa a few hours earlier.

But Fernwood had been at least an hour north of here on a winding mountain road that had low-key terrified me. I didn’t want to drive it again in a rainstorm after dark.

“Is he…” I couldn’t quite figure out the words to say.

But Shelly picked up my drift. “Oh, yeah. I’ve known him for years.

He fits in the good guy category. You’ve got nothing to worry about.

Plus, if you stay with him, you get to look at him.

He’s a serious mountain hottie. His place isn’t the Ritz, but he can put a roof over your head for the night.

You want to do it? Otherwise, I can try to find a spot for you on my cousin’s couch. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

One night. I can handle one night.

“Thank you, I’ll take the rental.” I tucked my phone away and let out a sigh as the clerk called Clayton.

“Hey, Clay-baby, it’s Shelly. I got one for you,” she announced in a sweet, honey voice.

Clay-baby? Wow.

I’d known a lot of women just like her in my old hometown. Sweet as sugar and soft as a pussycat.

That was a mold I’d never fit in myself, which probably explained why I’d gone running from the hills shortly after my eighteenth birthday.

Give me a big city over a small town any day of the week.

After Shelly got off the phone, she scribbled directions on a piece of paper and slid it across the counter.

“Thank you for making those arrangements,” I told her.

“Sure thing, honey. And don’t worry about Clayton. He’s all bark and no bite.”

Great.

As I headed towards the door, I looked at the directions she’d scrawled for me. “Take the main road north about four miles, then turn left at the crooked oak. You’ll see a dirt road. Follow it until you see the bent mailbox on the right.”

Turn left at the crooked oak. Of course. Because street signs were apparently too civilized for this place.

This is temporary. I reminded myself as I left the cozy lodge interior and headed out into the storm. Just one night.

My motto in life was that I could handle anything for just one day.

It was what kept me moving forward when life got to be too much.

Standing at the front door of the cozy lodge, I hesitated. The rain was really pelting down now, and I didn’t have an umbrella. It had gotten lost along with my luggage earlier today.

I ran for my rental car, but by the time I got into it, I was already soaked through. Water dripped from my hair onto my blazer, and my carefully pressed blouse clung to my skin in a way that made me want to cry.

The day had started early and left me exhausted.

The twelve to sixteen-hour days were starting to wear on me.

I’d started the morning on an early four a.m. flight out of a tiny speck of a town in Indiana. Then landed in Chicago for an early morning interview before flying into Tulsa and putting in a full day of claims inspections.

The day had ended with me driving through a rainstorm deep into the Ozarks to another tiny speck of a town.

Which is how I found myself on Red Oak Mountain going to stay in a rental best described as turn-left-at-the-crooked-oak.

All I wanted to do was curl up in a nice, clean hotel bathtub and get warm again before collapsing in bed.

But the best I’d be hoping for tonight was a warm bed. I cranked up the heat and followed the directions, watching the town lights fade in my rearview mirror.

As the road narrowed, trees pressed in on both sides, their bare branches showing buds but no leaves. Spring was coming, but it wasn’t quite here yet.

When my headlights shone on a crooked oak, I almost missed the turn. I slammed on my brakes and took the turn.

The dirt road was more mud than dirt, and the rental car protested every bump and rut.

I passed a handful of rusted mailboxes and houses that could use a fresh coat of paint, as I fought off the urge to turn around.

But none of the mailboxes were bent.

Then I saw it.

Is that it? That can’t be it.

But I already knew it had to be it.

I sat in the car for a long moment, engine running, wipers slapping against the windshield.

The mailbox canted to the side, its metal pole knocked askew. I couldn’t see the house. Just a narrow gravel drive that led behind a thick copse of cedar.

Turning into the drive, the house came into view.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

What I would give for a Homewood Suites right now.

Or a Hilton Garden Inn.

Or, be still my beating heart, a Courtyard by Marriott.

There was a reason I tried not to do independent listings. Hotel chains were generic, sure. But for a traveling business professional, they were all delightfully similar.

And what I craved in my nightly accommodations was a place that felt safe and clean. I didn’t need a quirky, cute Airbnb designed in somebody’s personal rendition of cottagecore, or contemporary modern or… heaven forbid, something cutesy, like a themed rental.

My worst stay had been at a Barbie Dream House themed rental. The amount of hot pink I’d been forced to ingest had given me nightmares. And I was the type who liked pink.

Nope. Giving me a boring chain rental any day of the week over any of these independently run disaster rentals.

But this place. Oof.

It might go down in my list of worsts, overtaking the Barbie Palace I’d encountered in Richmond, Virginia.

An old, rusted-out pickup truck sat in the driveway, looking like the kind of thing an alpha man would drive.

The house was… well. It was a house. Technically.

The porch looked like it had been assembled from scrap lumber.

Mismatched boards fitted together in a way that was functional but would never pass any of my inspections. The siding was weathered, the gutters were patched, and the whole structure had a cobbled-together look of something built by someone who had more skills than money.

I’d seen places like this before. Back in my hometown as well as on the job. There were cash-strapped homeowners who did their own repairs with whatever materials they could scavenge, cutting corners to save costs.