Seduced By the Mountain Man (Whitetail Falls: Mountain Men #6)

Chapter 1 – Demi

The snow falls thick here, layering itself across the pines until the branches bow under the weight.

I've been driving for two hours, watching my phone signal flicker in and out like a dying heartbeat, and the road has narrowed so much that I'm no longer sure if I'm following pavement or just the memory of where pavement used to be.

I love it.

No traffic or billboards screaming about last-minute Valentine's gifts or couples holding hands in coffee shop windows while I pretend scrolling through my phone is more interesting than the empty chair across from me.

I booked this trip three weeks ago, the day after I realized I'd be spending another February fourteenth alone, tired of being the woman men date when they're figuring themselves out, the soft place they land before they find someone they actually want to keep.

I'm thirty years old, and I'm done apologizing for taking up space.

The GPS cut out completely about ten minutes ago, but I have the hand-drawn map the rental company emailed me. It's charmingly analog, complete with little pine tree doodles and a note at the bottom that says If you reach the fork with the fallen birch, you've gone too far.

I haven't seen the fallen birch, so I'm choosing optimism.

The trees press closer, the world feels like it's holding its breath, and then, around a curve that makes my tires slip slightly, I see it.

The cabin.

Smoke curls from the chimney, thin and white against the gray sky. The windows are frosted at the edges, glowing faintly with what must be a firelight inside. Snow sits heavy on the roof, and the whole structure looks like something that grew here instead of being built.

I exhale, long and slow, feeling something in my chest unclench.

This is exactly what I needed.

I park and grab my bag from the backseat, my boots crunching through snow that's deeper than I expected.

The cold bites at my cheeks, and I pull my coat tighter as I make my way to the door.

The key is supposed to be in a lockbox by the entrance, but when I reach for it, I notice the door is already slightly ajar.

Maybe they left it open for me?...

I push the door wider, stepping inside with a smile already forming, ready to take in my little haven for the next two days.

And I walk straight into a man.

A massive man.

I stumble back, my bag hitting the doorframe, and look up into a face that's all hard angles and dark beard and eyes that pin me in place like I've just set off a trap I didn't know was there.

"What the hell—" His voice is low, rough, the kind of voice that sounds like it doesn't get used often.

"I—I'm sorry, I—" My heart is hammering, caught somewhere between fear and something else I don't want to name. "The door was open. I thought—"

"You thought you'd just walk into someone's house?" He's not shouting, but there's an edge to his tone that makes me feel scared.

"I booked this cabin." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. I fumble for my phone, pulling up the confirmation email with shaking hands. "See? Reservation number, dates, everything. I'm supposed to be here."

He stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. Then he pulls out his own phone, scrolling through something with the kind of slow frustration that suggests he's trying very hard not to break something.

"Goddamn system," he mutters.

"What system?"

He looks at me again, and I get my first real chance to take him in.

He's tall, with shoulders that seem engineered for hauling timber or surviving blizzards.

His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he's run his hands through it a few too many times today, and his beard is full but neat.

His flannel shirt is rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are all muscle and scars.

I should not be noticing his hands right now.

"The booking system," he says, his voice flat. "Town council made me switch to some automated thing last month. I told them it wasn't ready. Looks like I was right."

"So… what does that mean?"

He exhales through his nose, a long, controlled breath that does nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. "It means the cabin's double-booked."

"But I—" I stop myself. Getting defensive won't help. "Okay. So what do we do?"

"I'll call the booking office." He's already dialing, his phone pressed to his ear. I watch him wait, his jaw working like he's chewing on something bitter. After a long moment, he lowers the phone. "Voicemail. They're closed until tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day."

"I'm aware."

Of course he is. He probably hates it as much as I do.

"There's a hotel about an hour back toward town," I offer, already mentally calculating how long it'll take me to navigate that narrow road in the dark. "I can just—"

"No." The word is immediate, almost sharp. He catches himself, softening slightly. "It's already getting dark. You're not driving back out there tonight."

"I don't want to intrude—"

"You're not intruding. The system screwed up." He scrubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, he looks less angry and more just… tired. "I've got other cabins, but they're all booked. Valentine's weekend. Every couple within fifty miles wanted to play wilderness romance."

I almost laugh at the disdain in his voice, but I catch it just in time.

"So what do we do?" I ask again.

He looks at me for a long moment, and I realize his eyes are this startling shade of dark hazel, almost gold in the firelight. Then he sighs.

"You stay. I'll figure it out."

"Stay where?"

He gestures vaguely toward the rest of the cabin, and I follow him deeper inside, finally getting a proper look at the space.

It's small. Cozy, if I'm being generous.

The main room holds a stone fireplace, a worn leather couch, a wooden table with two chairs, and a compact kitchen area tucked into one corner.

Everything is clean but lived-in, like it's been here long enough to settle into itself.

The fire crackles softly, throwing warm light across the log walls.

And then I see the doorway at the back.

One doorway.

I move toward it before I can stop myself, stepping into a bedroom that's just barely big enough for the bed dominating the space. There's a small dresser, a single window, and absolutely no other furniture.

One bed.

I turn back to find him standing in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression.

"I'll take the couch," he says.

I look at the couch. Then I look at him. Then I look at the couch again.

"You're not going to fit on that couch."

"I've slept in worse places."

"I'm sure you have. But you're not doing it tonight." I cross my arms, feeling something stubborn rise in my chest. "This is ridiculous. The bed is big enough for two adults to share without even touching."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. But I'm not going to make you sleep on a couch that's two feet too short because of a computer glitch." I meet his eyes, refusing to back down. "We're both adults. We can handle sharing a bed for one night without it being weird."

The silence stretches.

"It's two nights," he says finally. "You booked through the fifteenth."

Oh.

Right.

"Two nights," I repeat, my voice perhaps a touch less confident than it was five seconds ago.

He stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm serious. Then, slowly, he nods.

"Fine. But I'm staying on my side."

"That's the plan."

"And we're putting pillows between us."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just shakes his head and moves back into the main room. I hear him muttering something under his breath.

I set my bag down by the bed, my hands still shaking slightly.

I press my palms against my thighs, forcing myself to breathe. This is fine. This is completely fine.

I came here to be alone, to reset, to stop feeling like I'm performing femininity for an audience that will never applaud. And instead, I'm sharing a cabin with a man who looks like he was carved out of the wilderness itself.

I hear him moving around in the living room, the creak of floorboards, the soft thud of wood being added to the fire. When I step back out, he's crouched by the fireplace, his back to me, and I let myself look.

His shoulders strain against his flannel. His jeans sit low on his hips, and when he shifts his weight, I catch the flex of muscle beneath denim. His hands move with efficiency, adjusting the logs, and I find myself wondering what those hands would feel like.

I clear my throat. He glances back, and I swear I see the faintest hint of color on his cheeks before he stands and brushes ash off his palms.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"I—yeah. I didn't eat much on the drive."

"I'll make something."

He moves into the kitchen area without waiting for a response, and I'm left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with myself. Eventually, I sit on the couch, tucking my legs under me and trying not to stare at the way his back shifts as he moves.

When he glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine for just a second before he looks away, I feel the heat of it all the way down to my toes.

I came here to escape Valentine's Day, but I'm starting to think the universe had other plans.