Holidays with the Mountain Man (Curvy Girl Holidays #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CLARA

“Clara, you still there?” Blair's voice crackles through the rental’s Bluetooth speaker.

“Yes. Just navigating some weather.” The windshield wipers squeak against the snow.

“The forecast said clear skies. This assignment needs to be perfect. The agency wants their Christmas campaign shots by the twenty-third.”

I have to nail this. If I do, it will secure my promotion to Creative Director, the youngest in the history of the company. The pressure sits like a weight on my chest.

“I've got it handled. Small-town, Christmas card perfection.”

“That's my girl. Remember they want the new location up on Pine Road. And Clara? I know you usually skip the holidays for work, but try not to let that cynicism show in the photos. We're selling Christmas magic.”

I roll my eyes, but Blair isn’t wrong. After my parents moved back to Portugal, I’ve volunteered for the Christmas shifts no one else wants to do. Between their new restaurant, my work, and different time zones, we keep in touch with rushed FaceTime calls.

“I’ll deliver. Trust me.”

“I do. That's why you're getting this chance.”

The call ends just as I pull into town. Even to my jaded eyes, Snowflake Falls is charming.

All the buildings are draped in lights, the Candy Cabin's striped awning sags under snow, and Jolly's Diner has a vintage-style mechanical waving Santa.

Smiling people bustle everywhere, laden with shopping bags.

I need coffee and directions to the mountain overlook before this snow gets worse. The agency said the photos on Pine Road are the money shots that will make or break this campaign.

Friar's Bar is a big wood-panelled building with alarming neon reindeer dangling from the roof. The warmth hits me first when I push through the heavy door, then woodsmoke and beer. At the bar, an old man with a Santa-style huge white beard is gesturing wildly with his mug.

“Storm's brewin',” he announces to no one in particular. “These old bones don't lie. Gonna be a big one, boys.”

The bartender catches my eye. “What can I get you?”

“Black coffee to go, thanks. And directions to the overlook on Pine Road.”

Grumpy Santa swivels toward me, sharp blue eyes sizing me up as he nods at the camera case I’m carrying. “You're another photographer? Here to make us look pretty for the tourists.”

I smile. “I'm here to showcase your beautiful town, yes. I’m Clara.”

He snorts. “Name’s Carl. Those mountain roads ain't for city folk in rental cars. Not with what's coming.”

“The forecast says—”

“The forecast doesn't know these mountains.” Carl turns back to his beer. “That overlook you're wanting is ten miles up Pine Road. You'd best forget it unless you want to spend Christmas on that mountain.”

“I just need an hour up there for photos.”

Carl shakes his head. “That storm don't care about your deadlines, girl.”

But I can’t listen to him. I leave cash on the bar and head back into the increasingly heavy snow. The road up starts innocently enough, winding through pine forests that look like a postcard. But as I climb higher, following the GPS's cheerful directions, the rental car's tires begin to slip.

Thirty minutes later, miles from town and probably from any help, the snow has turned from picturesque to problematic. The windshield wipers can't keep up. The road narrows until it's barely wide enough for one car, with a guardrail that looks more decorative than functional.

I should turn back. But there's nowhere to turn around, only this ribbon of road carved into the mountain. That's when the tires lose their argument with the ice entirely.

The car slides sideways in horrifying slow motion. I pump the brakes but it doesn't matter. The rental’s back tires slip into the ditch as the car tilts at an angle that makes my stomach drop.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

The car’s wheels spin uselessly as I try to reverse, a high whining sound echoing off the mountain. It’s stuck.

My phone shows no signal, and it’s already getting dark, the storm eating what little daylight December offers.

I sit for a moment, hands shaking. Do I stay here? The car could be buried in snow by morning. But walking down to town means miles in a blizzard. Walking up the mountain… I have no idea what's up there.

I grab my coat and camera bag, then step out into the storm. The cold makes me suck in my breath. The snow is already covering the car's tracks, erasing evidence I was ever here. I need to get my travel case out of the trunk.

Walking forward, I stumble, going down hard on my ankle.

I use the side of the car to pick myself up, tears pricking at my eyes.

That's when headlights cut through the white, growing larger.

A massive truck materializes from the storm, rumbling to a stop behind my pathetic rental.

The door opens with a creak, and someone steps out.

He's enormous, a giant of a man moving easily through the snow. A thick beard covers half his face, dark with silver threads that catch in the truck's headlights. He wears heavy boots and a thick jacket that does nothing to disguise his impressive muscles.

Then a chocolate Lab bounds through the snow toward me, tail wagging furiously despite the storm.

“Comet, heel,” the man commands, his voice a low rumble that carries through the wind. The dog ignores him, jumping at me with enthusiastic kisses.

“Hell, what were you thinking driving up here in this weather?” The man reaches me, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They're dark, almost black in the fading light.

“I need to get to the overlook,” I manage through chattering teeth, trying to sound professional while the dog tries to knock me over with pure love. “For photos. It's important.”

He stares at me like I've announced plans to do a risqué photoshoot with Santa himself. Those dark eyes travel from my soaked boots to my flimsy coat to my camera bag, taking inventory of exactly how unprepared I am for this situation.

“Let me guess, you’re from the city…” But even as he says it, his hands are reaching toward me to steady me as I start to slip backwards. “You hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. Just cold. And stuck.”

“Yeah, I can see that. This car isn't moving until spring, the way this storm's shaping up.”

“Spring? It's December twenty-first!”

He gives me the ghost of a grim, already examining my car's position in the snow. “I need to get you somewhere warm before you freeze. Can you walk?”

I take a step to prove I can and immediately slip again on the ice. His hand shoots out, catching my elbow, steadying me with an ease that makes me feel even more incompetent.

“These boots weren't made for deep snow,” I admit, heat flooding my cheeks despite the cold.

“No kidding.” He looks from me to his truck, then back again, and I see the moment he makes a decision. “Guess I'm carrying you then.”

“That's really not—”

But he's already scooping me up like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees, the other around my back. I should be scared, should protest more. Instead, pressed against his flannel-covered chest, I’m safe. Warm.

He smells like woodsmoke and musk, and it makes my brain go fuzzy. His beard brushes my forehead as he adjusts his grip, all hard muscles and solid strength.

“This is completely unnecessary,” I squeak.

“You want to try walking again?” His breath is warm against my temple.

“Not really.”

He carries me toward the truck with steady steps, Comet bounces alongside us, barking joyfully. Opening the door, he places me gently on the passenger seat and looks down at me. His eyes are dark and intense, and my heart thuds faster despite the circumstances.

“I'm Clara Berry,” my voice is breathy.

“Beau Northwood,” he says, not breaking eye contact as snow swirls around the truck. “Welcome to Snowflake Falls, Clara Berry. Hope you're ready for a real mountain Christmas.”