Second Chance with the Mountain Man Next Door

1. Lana

one

Lana

When my older brother Lex said yes to being the fake stripper for the bachelorette party at our winery, I knew I had to get away from the chaos that was coming. I ended up in the tasting room, covering for Jill so she could get home early to her husband and kids.

It’s been a slow Friday night, probably because of the wedding we’re hosting this weekend.

The bride and her friends are in the main conference room, where Lex is entertaining them.

The groom still hasn’t shown up. Thankfully, his loud groomsmen left for town five hours ago, and I haven’t seen them since.

It’s almost closing time, so I should be cleaning the counter, locking up, and thinking about the leftover pasta in my fridge. Instead, I’m watching a stranger brood over a small glass of wine.

He showed up twenty minutes ago, looking amazing in a charcoal suit, and asked if we were still serving.

We were, unfortunately. Even worse, I find him fascinating.

Brooding men shouldn’t be this interesting.

But as soon as he walked in and sat at the counter, I was drawn to his grumpy look and ridiculously handsome face.

“Bad day?” I wipe the counter with the bar rag, watching his face.

His dark brown eyes lift to meet mine. “You could say that.” He runs a hand over his jaw.

“Work?” I raise an eyebrow and wait for his reply.

“No.” He holds my gaze, and for the first time since he walked through the door, I feel he truly sees me, not just the employee pouring his drinks.

“Family?” I press.

“Sort of.” He lifts the glass to his mouth and takes a big drink of our best cabernet, downing it like an animal instead of savoring it, which is kind of hot.

I’m used to all the stuck-up rich guys who come and go at our winery, pretending to be wine experts. The way this stranger drinks his wine is actually kind of refreshing.

“Let me guess—you're a spy, and your cover's blown.” I lean across the counter. “Almost a smile,” I say, noticing a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He squares his shoulders, then looks at me again. “I don't smile much.”

“That's tragic.”

He studies me for a moment, as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “What time do you close?”

“Ten minutes ago.” I hold back a laugh. “I’m just kidding,” I tease.

He glances toward the nearly empty tasting room. “I should go.”

Something about the way he says it makes me think he doesn’t really want to leave. I should let him go, but instead I pick up the bottle. “One more?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” He slides his glass across the counter toward me.

“Absolutely not. You’re too big for me to drag outside.” He laughs, a deep sound that makes my stomach do a ridiculous flip. I should send him on his way, but every instinct tells me to get to know him better. “What’s your name?”

“Marx.” A small dimple appears this time as he smiles at me.

“I’m Lana.” I lift my chin, trying not to let him affect me, but my pulse gives me away.

“Lana,” he repeats quietly, making my heart race even faster.

I shouldn’t like the way my name sounds when he says it, but I do.

“So, Marx, what’s waiting for you tomorrow that’s making you look like someone canceled Christmas?

” I pour him another drink, set the bottle down, curl my fingers into my palm, and wait for his answer. My fingernails dig into my skin.

His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. For several seconds, he doesn't speak. Then he says, "My wedding."

I blink, trying to process what he just said. I finally meet a guy I’m interested in, and he’s getting married. “Your wedding?” The words hang in the air between us.

“Tomorrow afternoon.” He lifts the glass to his lips in a mocking salute.

My eyes go straight to his left hand—no ring, of course. He’s not married yet, but he’s definitely engaged. “And you’re sitting alone at a winery the night before?”

“Yep.” He stares off into the distance.

“Shouldn't you be at the rehearsal dinner or something?” I cross my arms and wait for his answer.

“The bride didn't want one—she's more interested in the bachelorette party.” Marx rubs the back of his neck, a sad smile on his face.

Wow, this sounds just like the bride we’re hosting this weekend. She also refused to attend the rehearsal dinner and instead demanded a male stripper for her bachelorette party.

"Do you love her?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

His head snaps up. "That's direct." Marx lets out a slow breath, his expression tightening.

“You came into my winery looking miserable the night before your wedding. We’re past pretending.” I brace a hand on the counter and keep my eyes on him.

He looks down at his wine. “No.” Marx runs a hand over his jaw, then meets my gaze. Just one word, no hesitation.

My heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze for a stranger I met twenty minutes ago. "Does she love you?"

"No," Marx says without hesitation, and a wave of relief washes over me.

"Then why are you getting married?"

“Because everyone expects us to.” Marx rubs the back of his neck, his face full of sadness.

"That's a terrible reason." I shake my head. Who in their right mind would think that is a good reason to get married?

“I know.” His tone sounds as deflated as he looks.

"You're saying that a lot," I call him out for his repetitive answer.

"Because you're right a lot." Marx lets out a slow breath.

"Careful.” I lean forward with a sly smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I'll get used to it."

That almost smile returns—then disappears. "Our families have been planning the wedding for a year. There are business relationships at stake. Hundreds of people are coming to be part of the wedding of the century."

"And?" I should stop pressuring him to tell me something that is none of my business, but something about this man makes me want to know everything about him, even though I can never have him.

He draws a slow breath before answering. "And I can't breathe when I think about what this wedding means to everyone but me."

The humor leaves me. Marx doesn’t have cold feet—he's terrified—not of the marriage, but of making the wrong choice and living with it forever.

This is none of my business, but the thought of him promising forever to someone he does not love makes my chest ache.

"You don't have to do it." The words fly out before I can stop them.

His gaze locks onto mine. "Everyone says I do."

"I'm not everyone." I cross my arms over my chest, silently wishing he'd fight for his future.

He looks at me as if I've just said the one thing nobody else has been willing to say. "You really believe that?"

"Yes," I answer honestly.

"What would you do?" His question surprises me. It really isn’t my business who he marries, but I can’t help wanting to make sure he doesn’t do anything he’ll regret later.

"If I didn't love the person?" I hold his gaze as he nods. "I wouldn't marry them."

Marx exhales slowly. “Even if everyone hated you for calling off the wedding?"

I look him square in the eyes, leaving no room for doubt. "I'd rather have everyone mad at me for a year than wake up next to the wrong person for fifty."

Marx runs a hand over the back of his neck and laughs. "That's brutal."

"It's practical," I shrug.

"You don't seem practical." He glances down at my T-shirt, with the words "I make pour decisions" written in purple glitter, a gift from Liv, and I inwardly cringe at not running back to the small cabin behind the winery where I’m staying tonight to change into the mandatory uniform before taking over for Jill.

I lift my chin and hold his gaze. “It was a gift.”

"It has glitter—real, sophisticated." He snorts.

"Get out of my winery," I joke, loving how easy it is to talk to him.

He's smiling now, and I suddenly understand why I noticed him the second he walked through the door. When Marx isn't carrying the weight of his life on his shoulders, he's beautiful—not just handsome. But warm, funny, real, like no one else I’ve ever met.

I wish he weren't getting married tomorrow.

The thought comes so quickly that I hate myself for it. He's engaged, I remind myself—totally off-limits.

If he leaves now, I may never see him again. I hate how much that possibility already hurts.

"Go talk to her." I grab the bottle of wine off the bar, needing something to do with my hands, or I’m afraid I’ll grab onto him and beg him not to leave—if only for a few more minutes before he gets married tomorrow, because I have a feeling our little talk was just that talk.

"Tonight," I add, hoping that if he talks to her now, he’ll do the right thing and call off the wedding.

"I know," Marx repeats his favorite catchphrase, and I want to shake some sense into him.

"Don't wait until tomorrow when she's wearing a wedding dress—don’t be that cruel.”

"I won't."

"Promise?" I hold my breath—for some reason, his answer means everything to me.

His gaze holds mine—his eyes searching mine. "I promise," he finally says.

With a nod, I let out a breath. "Good."

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and sets it on the counter—it’s far too much.

"That's too much." I push half of it back toward him.

"Consider it a tip.”

"For insulting your life choices?"

"It’s the best advice I've gotten all year." He lifts the wine glass to his lips, drinks down what’s left, then stands and walks toward the door. I tell myself I’m relieved. But to my surprise, he stops and looks back at me. "Lana?" His voice comes out strained.

"Yeah?"

"If I don't get married tomorrow..." Marx steps closer, his attention fixed solely on me.

My pulse skips a beat. "What?" I meet his gaze, waiting for him to finish.

"Nothing." He shakes his head, a sad smile on his lips, then walks out of the winery, possibly out of my life.

I stare at the door, unable to move. My only thoughts before locking up and walking to the small cabin: Will Marx call off the wedding, and why do I care so much?