 by Mia Brody.jpg)
Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Zoey
I’m Zoey. A romance writer, geeky girl, and hot mess extraordinaire. I’ve never met a situation I couldn’t make more awkward or a man I couldn’t embarrass myself in front of.
Case in point, I was relieving myself in the bushes after a really long trek up the mountain. Only to accuse the hot sheriff who stops to help of spying on me.
But Brock isn’t like everyone else. He looks at me and sees something he likes. Still, this thing between us is too good to be true, right? After all, I write fairytales. I don’t live them.
Brock
Zoey isn’t the typical tourist I meet. She’s young, adorkable, and so damn sweet. Definitely too sweet for the dirty things I have in mind when I see that cute derrière.
She’s just passing through which means this can only be a vacation getaway romance. Except that doesn’t sit right with me.
Before she leaves, I plan to show this beautiful novelist that I want to star in the love story of her life. Will she let me be her prince charming this Valentine’s Day?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ZOEY
“It’s magical here,” I breathe as the little Toyota I rented chugs up the snowy mountainside to Big Bear Lodge in Lake Tahoe. I’m meeting my friends for a Galentine’s Getaway this week. Like me, the girls are all romance writers, and we plan to spend Galentine’s Day together celebrating our friendship and working on our books.
We’ve been friends since we met in a chat room for aspiring romance authors. Now, the six of us are as close as sisters. Well, closer than sisters if you look at me and my twin sister. Our little group gets together for writing retreats as often as possible and we always end up having hours of fun.
Woofer, my little one-eyed Chihuahua, whines from the backseat. He’s probably wishing he were at home in Charleston, South Carolina. The weather there is a lot warmer in February.
Reaching for the vents, I aim it at the backseat in the hopes my little doggy will stay warm. I adopted him from the shelter last year and we’ve become fast friends. It broke my heart when I was volunteering at the day-long adoption event. Family after family overlooked the little guy just because he lost an eye to glaucoma. It sucks when no one wants you just because you’re a little bit different.
I glance at the odometer and my heart sinks. We still have another ten miles up the road before I arrive at the lodge. The miles are crawling by since I’m inching up the mountain. Even with the promised snow tires, I don’t feel comfortable driving in this winter wonderland.
When he whines again, I look in the rearview mirror. “Do you have to go as bad as I do?”
It’s not like the mountain has rest stops or gas stations on it. No, the beautiful remote location means we’re on our own until we make it up to our cabin. Except I don’t think I can wait that long. The extra-large hot chocolate was too much for me.
“Alright, if you promise that we won’t fall off the mountain, we can stop,” I tell him.
Woofer sighs in relief as I navigate the car to a spot on the side of the road. If we walk into the clearing a little bit, no one should be able to see us even if they do happen to drive along. Not that I expect another car to come through here. There isn’t a lot of traffic on the mountain.
I let my little dog do his business before I wrap his leash around the branch of one of the barren trees. That’s when I realize my predicament. The snowy landscape means there are no leaves or brush visible, nothing to dry off with afterwards.
Glancing at the tree, I see there’s a fine covering of a brown vine over the trunk and branches. Little white berries are clumped together on the hairy plant. The vine isn’t the ideal solution, but it’s going to have to do.
The wind howls as I do my business, and I have to work to stay balanced despite my wide hips and curvy figure. I’ve been camping before when I was younger. But I always had access to an outhouse at least. Here, I’m exposed to the elements.
“This feels like the opening to one of those urban legends where the girl disappears mysteriously,” I tell Woofer.
He cocks his head, the way he does when I’m telling him the details of one of my romance books. He’s a great listener. I’ve often joked with my friends that Woofer is the best boyfriend a girl could ask for. He’s loyal, patient, and always listens to me.
He lets out a bark and stares intently into a patch of nearby trees.
“Don’t you spook me like this,” I hiss at my dog.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up as every creepy horror movie I’ve ever seen goes through my head. The call was coming from inside the house.
“You know what? We’re going to sing a song,” I say. It’s what my Nana who raised me taught me to do any time I became scared or overwhelmed. By the time I’m halfway through the chorus, I’m starting to feel less frightened.
I reach for the hairy vine, still singing. I’ve just grazed it with my mitten when a loud, masculine voice yells, “Freeze.”
I stop, my ass in the air and my heart pounding. Serial killers aren’t supposed to announce themselves, are they? Is that against the rules in a horror movie? I can’t remember.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch that vine again.”
I’m supposed to say something sassy and brave. I should show the viewers that I’m a plucky heroine they can root for, not the dumb redhead that goes down into the creepy basement and deserves to be bludgeoned. “Stop spying on me, you pervert!”