Chapter 1
Chapter One
CORDELIA
"This was your idea," I tell the stricken curvy girl staring back at me in the mirror. "I warned you to stop coming up with master plans when alcohol is involved, but do you listen? No. No, you don't."
Apparently, Drunk Me still isn't listening because the only girl staring back is Stone-Cold Sober Me. And Stone-Cold Sober Me would like to speak to the manager.
I mean, honestly. Who convinces her best friends to celebrate Valentine's Day by forging a drunken pact to conquer our greatest fears? Drunk Me, that's who.
They're called fears for a reason. But text messages don't lie.
I'm definitely the ringleader of this circus.
Cordy: We're all spending Valentine's Day doing something we'd never do.
Devyn: Like what?
Cordy: Whatever you want. I saw an ad in the paper this morning for a mountain man looking for an assistant for two weeks. Maybe I'll call.
Cleary: You aren't serious.
Cordy: I'm completely serious.
Gem: I like the idea. Maybe I’ll take the plunge with that jewelry exhibition in town next week. Show off a few of my creations.
Peyton: It's insane, but I like it.
Mandy: Something we would never do? It's a terrible idea! We don’t do things for a reason.
It seemed like a good idea during our wine-fueled chat last week. It seems less so now that I'm sober and out of time. Valentine's Day is just a few days away, and I'm the only one of the girls who hasn't followed through on our agreement.
"No more Moscato for you," I mutter to my reflection, even though both me and said reflection know I don't actually mean it.
I made the same resolution after I convinced the girls that we should take Gemma's inflatable dolphin to the fountain on the Vegas strip for an impromptu, late-night pool party.
Thank God we were the least interesting crime happening in Vegas that night!
I'm pretty sure I also said the same thing when I decided to dye my hair pink to match my business cards. It's an adorable color, but the upkeep is exhausting!
Wine nights with my book club besties might be ruining my life. Because Drunk Me really sold this mountain man idea. The girls keep asking if I've talked to him yet. No! No, I haven't. But his ad is still in the paper.
I know exactly three things about mountain men. One, they exist. Two, they live in the mountains. Three, they make sexy romantic heroes. Beyond that, color me clueless.
Why this particular mountain man needs an assistant for two weeks, I don't know.
I'm not even sure what an assistant to a mountain man does.
My personal assistant skills have only ever been put to use for the self-employed and small businesses who need an extra set of hands periodically but don't want to hire through a temp agency. But I'm committed now.
And freaking terrified. Nature and I are sworn enemies. Ironic considering I've spent my whole life in the Pacific Northwest, where people come specifically for nature. But the one, and only, time I went camping, I got lost.
I spent four days wandering through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest near Mt.
Rainier by myself, cold, wet, and starving.
I was thirteen. I haven't stepped foot in a forest or on a mountain since.
The first thing I did when they found me was opt out of all future field trips for the rest of forever. But it's been ten years.
It's time for me to grab Babe the Blue Ox by the horns and face my fear.
What better place than with a client who is basically Paul Freaking Bunyan?
"You can do it," I coach myself. Stone-Cold Sober Me isn't convinced, but she picks up the phone anyway.
I dial the number from the ad and The Wonder Pets theme plays through my head—the part about the phone ringing. My childhood comes rushing back in a sea of anxiety.
"Dammit, Nell," a man growls on the third ring. The gravelly timbre of his voice reminds me of thunder rumbling in the distance. It's strangely…erotic. "Would you stop fucking bugging me and let it ride, already? I told you I'm not fucking going."
"Um, who's Nell?" I ask, and then internally cringe. I should really work on minding my business and not everyone else's. He doesn't sound like he's in a sharing mood.
The line goes silent for a heartbeat and then I hear him take a breath. "From the sounds of it, not you," he says.
"Nope."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Cordelia Shanks."
He sighs, sounding exasperated. "Well, Cordelia Shanks, I don't need whatever you're selling, unless it's cookies. I'm Buddhist. And my Jeep is older than Lucifer so I don't have or need an extended warranty, either. And if you're calling to scam me, don't."
"I'm not selling anything or scamming anyone," I say. "Wait. Are you really a Buddhist?"
"Depends on if you're calling to spread the good word about our Lord and Savior," he growls. "Because I don't have the time for it."
"I'm not."
"Then no."
"Oh. Then why Buddhism? Why not go with I'm a Satanist?"
"I'm trying to get off the phone, not have every church from here to Oregon calling me," he says. "Or showing up at my damn door."
"Good point. I didn't think about that."
"I'm hanging up now. Do me a favor and don't call back."
"Wait! Hire me first."
Oh, good grief. That is not what I meant to say.
"Hire you? I don't even know you. Why in the hell would I hire you?"
"Your ad," I blurt, talking fast to keep him from hanging up on me.
He's awful cranky. Are all mountain men grumpy, or did I just win the lottery?
I probably just won the lottery. A real-life, grumpy mountain man.
The girls are going to love this. I'm not so sure I'm going to love this, though.
I'm the opposite of grumpy. "You need a personal assistant for two weeks, and I'm the answer to your prayers, Mr. Mountain Man, sir.
The Shanks Agency—that's me, by the way—is capable of handling all of your needs.
I'm hardworking, a self-starter, and I require very little supervision.
You tell me what you need, and you'll get it. "
"Say that again," he growls, his voice rougher.
"Um, which part?"
"What you called me."
"Oh. Mr. Mountain Man, sir?" I repeat, my brows furrowed. "Your ad didn't have a name attached. I'm not sure exactly what your job title is. I tried to look it up, but the internet wasn't very helpful, sir. There aren't very many mountain men left, apparently."
"Fuck," he rumbles, only it sounds more like a groan. "Deacon."
"What?"
"My name is Deacon, Cordelia."
"Deacon," I repeat, testing it out. It's an interesting name. Kind of…sexy.
"Jesus Christ," he growls. Does he ever speak normally or does everything he say come out in that same grumpy, growly tone? "Do you even know what an assistant for a mountain man does, Sunshine?"
"No," I say slowly. "But I didn't know what a paranormal adventure tour guide did either until I was crawling through tunnels under Seattle. I learn quickly, Mr. Deacon, and I'd really like to help you."
Please say yes so I don't have to tell the girls my master plan fell through. I can't be the ringleader and the failure!
"Deacon," he growls. "It's just Deacon."
"Okay, then. I'd really like to help you, Deacon." I pause. "I can send my resume and references."
"Don't need them," he mutters, and my stomach sinks. He's not going to hire me. I'm going to be the first of the girls to strike out. Crap on a cracker. Drunk Me is banned from coming up with ideas for at least the next year. "If you're going to work for me, I have rules, Sunshine."
Wait, what? He wants to hire me?
Thank you, Spooks Below Decks! I knew taking that crazy job would pay off some day.
"Name them," I say, willing to agree to just about anything he throws at me.
"Rule one, you do what I say, when I say," he says. "No questions asked. I'm not going to have you getting eaten by a goddamn bear because you got out here and wouldn't listen."
"Okay," I agree quickly. He's the expert, not me.
"Rule two, you stay the full two weeks. No quitting halfway through because you're bored or cold. I won't have time to take you back down the mountain."
"I never quit once I make a commitment, Deacon."
"Rule three," he says, carrying on like I'm not even talking.
"You'll be living with me. If that's going to be a problem for your man, it's his problem, not mine.
I don't want some jealous idiot showing up on my doorstep, causing a problem.
If Tyr doesn't drag him back down the mountain, I will. Got it?"
"I don't have a man," I mutter, and then bite my lip. Maybe I shouldn't have told him that. It's probably best if he thinks I have a professional football player or something waiting for me at home. Less chance of me disappearing without a trace that way, right?
Too late, I guess.
"Good," he grunts. "I'll see you tomorrow, Cordelia."
"T-tomorrow?"
"Is that a problem?"
Yes. I can't pack for two weeks in one day. It's going to take me that long to figure out what to pack!
"Nope," I lie cheerfully. "Not a problem at all."
"Good. I'll text you the address, Sunshine. We'll meet at the saloon in town."
"Thank you," I squeak. "You won't regret it, Deacon!"
"Oh, I'm sure I will, Sunshine," he says, and then chuckles.
I don't get a chance to ask what he means by that before he hangs up on me. I flop onto my bed, kicking my feet in the air like an excited little girl.
"I got the job!" I cry to the ceiling. And the reality sets in.
Oh, crap. I got the job.
Now, I have to convince him that a crazy, pink-haired curvy girl who is terrified of the woods can hack it as his assistant.