Page 1 of Ten Mountain Men

Chapter 1

Goldie

Whenever I need to take my mind off something that’s bugging me, I recite quotes. It’s something one of my mother’s old boyfriends did, and it does the trick, oddly enough. Working as a field producer in reality television for most of my twenties, I’ve rarely been alone, so I got in the practice of reciting in my head. But it’s just me now. Me and the open road.

Me and the open road and no bathroom in my near past, present, or future, oh God.

“Perfection is not the absence of flaws, but rather the embrace of imperfections in the colorful threads that weave the unique fabric of our existence,” I say, loud enough to be heard outside of my BMW—who I named Petunia.

Good thing only trees are around to hear me. That one’s a mouthful. Way too flowery and, in my opinion, completely untrue. Bullshit, is what it is. But my mother’s third husband, Roy—another ex-husband now, of course, but my favorite of them all—was the one who added that quote by the prolific Anonymous to my repertoire, so I keep it in rotation.

I prefer the shorter, sweeter, and more spot-on,Perfection is everything.

Perfectionis my snazzy little convertible which still looks as shiny and new, inside and out, as it did when I drove it off the lot two years ago in all its Thundernight Metallic glory—only the most gorgeous shade of purple known to man.

Perfectionis my pink Dior sunglasses with the darling tiny pair of gold stars on either side of the frames, my favorite nude lipstick, and the brand-new, high-speed, shockproof, waterproof action camera with wireless microphone that hangs on a cord around my neck, ready to go.

“Perfection is not,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “pulling over and squatting behind a tree to pee.”

I glance at the gas gauge and bite my lip. I may not have a choice about the whole squatting behind a tree to pee thing, because even if my painfully full bladder can hold out until I hit a rest stop, I don’t think the fuel situation is going to.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

The demanding ache in my lower abdomen insists I do something already.

Focus on the foliage.The leaves are an explosion of colors. Gorgeous. Stunning. Golden amber. Flame orange. Saffron yellow. Crimson red.

Ugh. I could name all the colors in the world’s largest Crayola box, but that’s not going to help me hold it. No distraction will. I’m one-hundred-percent going to wet myself.

Then I see it.

Up ahead.

A break in the endless line of trees. And there’s a sign.

Piney Grove Trading Post and General Store.

My pulse accelerates and so does my car. Pedal to the metal, baby.

I yank the steering wheel just in time to bulldoze into the tiny gravel lot, my tires kicking up all kinds of grit and debris. I apologize to Petunia, hoping I haven’t caused any damage to her pristine exterior. I’d be so upset with myself if I nicked the paint. Normally I take great care with everything I do, and I pride myself on never being the person who parks like an entitled jackhole, but I’m desperate now. I skid to a stop, coughing on my own dust clouds as I scramble out.

The cozy log cabin, nestled between the towering pines, doesn’t look like a shop. Aside from the creaky old sign swaying in the breeze, it looks like someone’s charmingly rustic home. The scattering of colorful flowerpots on the railing of the wraparound porch, and the painted rocking chairs, add a burst of color to the rugged wilderness.

After working on the wildly popular home renovation show1 Girl, 10 Hammersfor eight seasons, it’s hard not to assess and admire a well-built home. Even when spontaneous urination is imminent, toilet or no.

I race up the steps and a bell jingles as I burst through the doors.

Thank God, I made it!

I let out a sigh of immense relief.

And then I recoil immediately, stopping in my tracks as horror floods my veins.

I amsurroundedby useless knickknacks, worthless doodads, and gaudy baubles. Clutter, clutter, clutter, everywhere I look. This is not a trading post and general store—it’s my own personal hell. Idespiseclutter.

I take a step back and bump into something. It teeters, then topples, crashing to the floor.

A freaking garden gnome, garishly painted with a grotesque grin. Hideous thing. But dammit, I hope I haven’t broken it. I don’t think—

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