Page 3 of Mountain Boss

At this elevation, over eight thousand feet, we don’t have lawns, just sporadic ground vegetation, so I don’t really bother with landscaping.

The approaching headlights crest the final hill in the driveway, and the outline of a Jeep Wrangler appears.

He’s driving slowly, which is smart, probably taking in the buildings as he goes.

Back there, he’s passing the communal bathrooms. One for men and one for women.

Now he’s passing a pair of guest cabins.

Off to my right is another cluster of cabins. And a little past that is the second largest structure, the Bunk House, where my five—soon to be six—employees sleep.

Not far from the Bunk House is the Food Hall—a single-room cabin with an industrial kitchen. There are picnic tables inside and more under an overhang outside.

A path runs from here to there, but it’s thin since I’m pretty much the only one whotravels it.

To my left are a few more structures. A Laundry Cabin, which will be used by the new maintenance guy, and the Storage Shed.

The setup is simple but effective.

And all mine.

I fill my lungs with the clean fall air as the Jeep finally comes to a stop several yards from the bottom of my porch stairs.

The sun reflects off the windshield, making it hard to see the form inside.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the engine shuts off, and the driver’s door opens.

I take one step forward.

Then I stop.

Because the person who climbs out of the vehicle before me isn’t my new employee.

It’s a woman.

She’s standing so I can see her head between the open door and the side of her Jeep. And the dwindling sunlight glows off her light brown hair.

Hair that’s been twisted into two braids.

Braids that instantly give me inappropriate ideas.

I clear my throat.

I was expecting Court, so I hadn’t bothered to button up my flannel, but now my fingers twitch at my sides as I debate the merits of leaving my shirt open or trying to button it before she can round her door.

But then she does just that. Stepping fully into view. And I don’t care about my buttons anymore. Because all I can focus on is her.

Her tits straining against her white T-shirt.

Her thick, clutch-able waist.

Her full hips covered in tight denim, and, pretty please, let there be a rounded ass to match.

This time when my fingers twitch, it’s for a whole different reason.

I don’t even care that my new employee is late. Don’t care if he shows up at all. I can certainly pass the time with this lost lady.

Maybe offer up a cup of coffee.

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