Page 3 of Her Mountain Man Recluse

My dad just nods along. He’s usually too absorbed in his phone to notice much else—probably on Tinder. His string of affairs is an open secret that my mom refuses to talk about. She prefers to take out her anger on everyone except the man who truly deserves it. I moved out as soon as I could, and it’s not a place I’m desperate to rush back to.

Then came the video, which sure didn’t help things. Going viral for all the wrong reasons was the cherry on top of a crappy new year, and I had to get away from it all. The ad for a vacationcabin in the mountains popped up on my feed, and I booked it spontaneously.

I know, I know…it would have been smarter to save the money.

But God, I really need this.

So this morning I filled my suitcase with a few clothes and all my favorite romance novels, determined to escape. After all, running away from my problems is what I do best. When things get tough, I shut out the world, burying myself in books and hiding in my apartment for weeks. But this time, I’m running away a bit more literally. For two nights, anyway. That’s all I could afford.

I just hope I can find the darn place in this storm.

After stopping several more times to wait out the weather, I finally pull up outside the tiny wooden cabin six hours later than planned. My headlights illuminate its weathered log walls and snow-topped roof. It’s perfect, and I let out a contented sigh, ready to get out of the car and finally stretch my legs. But something stops me. The cabin’s windows are glowing orange, and a shadow is moving inside.

With a frown, I squint around me, looking into the darkness. I can just make out a large pickup truck parked nearby, and my frown deepens. I unlock my phone and double-check the address, scanning the photos. It’s definitely the right place. So why is there somebody already here?

Maybe it’s the owner? He might want to warn me about the storm or give me extra supplies.

When I booked the cabin, I received an email from a guy called Weston who gave me all the details, including the code to the key lockbox outside. It must be him inside the cabin. Maybe he greets all his guests this way.

Feeling reassured, I get out of my car and flinch as the freezing January wind bites at my skin. Grabbing my luggagefrom the trunk, I hurry to the front door and knock hard, fighting to be heard over the storm. A few moments later, it opens a crack. I can’t make out the person’s features in the gloom, but I hear a deep masculine voice ask, “Who’s there?”

“I’m Lila,” I shout, my voice carried away by the wind. “Lila Martin. I’m the one who booked the cabin. Are you Weston?”

There’s silence for a moment. Then the door opens wider and light spills out to reveal a giant. He fills the doorway, towering over me like a mountain, his broad shoulders straining against a red flannel shirt. His thick brows furrow as he looks at me.

“You booked this place?”

“Uh…yes.” I get out my phone and show him the email, worry gnawing at my gut. “You sent me all the details yesterday, remember?”

The man runs a hand over his bushy beard, looking agitated. “I didn’t send you anything. I’m not Weston.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own phone, showing me an identical email. “I booked this place for two nights.”

“But…so did I.” My eyes burn in the cold as I read and reread the email on the stranger’s phone. The dates are the same as mine. As I read through it one last time, hoping for some kind of explanation, a violent gust of wind almost knocks me off my feet, and I stagger against the cabin wall.

“You better come inside,” the stranger says reluctantly.

He steps back and lets me in. I hurry into the warmth, taking in the tiny living room with its roaring fireplace and rustic furniture. But it’s hard to feel at home when there’s a hulking mountain man staring at me, his tree-trunk-sized arms crossed over his chest. I chance a glance at him, my heart spasming when I meet his gaze.

Wow.

I can see him more clearly in this light—his deep blue eyes, his firm jaw, the streaks of gray in his beard. He must be in hisforties at least, and in this small log cabin, he looks ridiculously huge. Six and a half feet of thick, solid muscle. I have to force myself not to stare.

“So…I guess there’s been some kind of mix-up,” I say, the awkwardness of the situation settling on me.

“Guess so.”

“What do you think we should do?”

The stranger doesn’t answer. He sure as heck isn’t making this easy, and his body language is screaming that he doesn’t want me here. But there’s no way I’m going to traipse around in the storm looking for somewhere else to stay. I booked this place fair and square, just like he did.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ridge,” he says. Then he lets out a sigh, looking resigned. “I’ll find somewhere else?—”

“You don’t need to do that.” I wrap my arms around myself, looking anywhere but at him. “We both booked this place. It’s not fair for me to kick you out.”

Ridge seems torn. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now, and it’s hard not to take it personally.

“You should stay for tonight at least,” I say, meeting his gaze defiantly. “It’s dark, the weather’s awful, and…well, I’m not the worst person to share a cabin with.”

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