Page 13 of Ten Mountain Men

I burst into giggles. It’s so absurd. I’m being pranked. That’s what’s happening. Because there is no way this is actually happening to me. All these mountain men are actually battling over Rose-Gold Amber Locke.

Actually, maybe I should be thinking about how these are eight (nine, if you count Grumpy Luke) total strangers. Who knows what their plans for me are? Haven’t I learned anything from all those true crime podcasts I listened to while traveling between film sites?

My giggles stop fast. They could be serial killers. They could be a sex cult. Are we even going in the right direction? What did they say when I asked if they were going to kill and eat me?

“Um, my tent is that way, I think,” I say, pointing the other way. There are too many trees to know for sure. “You can really just take me there and—”

“We’re not going to your campsite, darlin’,” Hunter says.

And no, I am not charmed by the way he saysdarlin’—except there are parts of me that totally are.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” I ask him again.

I mean, Hunter! His name is freaking Hunter! Hunters kill things. So he could totally be a serial killer.

“What?” Hunter replies, incredulous. “No! We’re going to take you back to our cabin and take care of you. You’re injured.”

That’s right. They said that. I squeeze my eyes closed, really wishing I had my sunnies. My head is pounding.

“You’re injured and it’s our fault,” Lynx says.

“All our fault,” another one of them adds. “I’m Nash by the way.” He widens his stride to catch up, while it seems the others all linger back to find my missing items. He winks at me and I feel it in my ladyparts. “And we need to feed you. Keep up your strength so you can heal. Luke isn’t much of a welcome wagon, but he sure can cook.”

“Grumpy Luke can cook?” It slips out, heavy with disbelief.

“Grumpy Luke, huh?” Hunter chuckles, and with my body pressed against him, I feel the rumble in his flat, gloriously chiseled stomach. “Fitting, alright.”

His laughter is causing flutters in my own belly. What the heck?

I have so many questions about these mystery mountain men. Time to put on my reality television show producer hat and draw answers out of them with stealth and tact, so they don’t even realize they’re spilling their guts until it’s too late.

“Are you some kind of mountain men sex cult?” I blurt out.

So much for stealth and tact.

It’s very possible I’m concussed.

Lynx laughs, the sound cracking like thunder around us. Hunter catches me in an earthquake of an embrace, his laughter rumbling through my entire body.

“We’re brothers,” Clay explains.

Ohhh. Well. That explains…you know. Nothing.

“Brothers,” I repeat.

“Yeah, but if you’re looking for a sex cult, we could—”

“Don’t mind Clay,” Lynx says. “He’s a wiseass. We’re brothers. We live a simple life. Off the grid. Not much more to it than that.”

I beg to differ—I bet there’s a helluva lot more to it than that. I have so many questions. But still, I commit Wiseass Clay to memory. Wiseass Clay, Grumpy Luke, Cat-Eyed Lynx, and Cute Pubes Hunter? Ughhh, my head.

“Clay, why don’t you run up ahead and draw a bath for her?” Hunter suggests.

I open my mouth to say that’s not necessary, but a bath sounds divine. No harm in getting a little cleaned up and taking advantage of hot running water before I go back to roughing it at my campsite. Maybe I can get one or two of them to come back and help me pitch my tent?

“On it.” Clay takes off at a jog.

“His hair is quite Rapunzelesque,” I remark. It’s platinum blond, longer than mine, and I wouldn’t mind climbing it to sit on his face. The thought makes me laugh, but laughing makes my brains feel like they’re rattling around in my skull. I wince.

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