Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 102(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 68(@300wpm)
Cordelia
Welcome to Winthrop, WA. Population: Screwed.
When I answered Deacon Cromwell’s ad for an assistant, roughing it with a mountain man was not what I had in mind.
But I’ll give anything a shot. Just so long as it doesn’t shoot back.
When my grumpy new boss finds out he hired…well, me…all bets are off.
He’s way too hot to handle.
And I’m dying to be handled.
If we don’t kill each other first.
I mean, accidents happen in the wild all the time, right?!
Deacon
When I placed an ad for an assistant, I expected someone who knew about life in the mountains.
Instead, I got saddled with the prettiest little mess I’ve ever met.
Cordelia’s mouth never stops moving, and the only thing hotter than that pink hair is her temper.
I have no business putting my filthy hands all over her, but she’s itching for someone to settle her down.
And it damn sure won’t be anyone but me.
This hot mess is mine to tame.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
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 a goddamn 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."