The Mountain Man’s Naughty List (Mountain Man Brides for Christmas #10)

Imogen

The bar is a fever dream of red lights and fake snow.

I’m wearing a scrap of velvet that keeps riding up and thigh-high boots that make my ass look amazing. My best friend's bachelorette party has hit the “Naughty Santa” portion of the evening, and the DJ just tossed a stack of cocktail napkins into the crowd like confetti.

“Write your Christmas naughty list, people! Twelve lines. No rules.”

I’m still on number one on my list, and my third Fireball and Coke, when a tall shadow falls over my table.

“Mind if I help?” The voice is low, warm, and dangerous.

I look up and forget how to breathe. Rolled sleeves. Tattoos. Eyes the color of a coming storm. He smells like pine needles and freedom.

He slides onto the stool beside me, steals my pen, and writes the first line before I can protest. I read it, laugh so hard I snort, and write the second.

We pass the napkin back and forth like a dare, each line dirtier and funnier than the last. By the time we hit twelve, I’m feeling more than a little turned on.

We never exchange last names. He calls me Vixen. I call him Soldier, though he never confirms it.

We never leave the bar, his hand on my thigh under the table, my fingers tracing the ink on his forearm, our heads bent together over that ridiculous napkin like it’s the most important document on earth.

At 3:30 a.m., somebody shouts that the Little White Chapel is still open.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing under fluorescent lights while a sleepy Elvis mumbles through the shortest ceremony in Nevada history.

We sign where they tell us, laugh the whole time, and kiss like the world is ending at sunrise.

They assure us that nothing will be filed, both of us promising to make sure of it tomorrow.

The next day, he’s gone.