Page 1 of Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise

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BRIDGET

Eleven minutes late. I had a feeling I was going to be a jilted bride.

Did it count as jilted if you had never even met the guy you were marrying? I wasn't sure. All I knew was Bobbi, the woman behind the front desk at the inn, assured me my groom would be here at seven for our first date. First meeting. First everything.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. We’d talked—well, I'd never actually heard his voice. It had all been through text. But that was how the guys my age communicated. Sure, this man was thirty-five, which meant we weren't even the same generation, but did anybody really talk on the phone these days if we didn't have to?

I looked back over my shoulder through the glass doors of the Wildwood Valley Inn. Bobbi was still nowhere in sight. I’d expected her to be behind the desk, but she was gone, and the parking lot was completely empty aside from my silver sedan.

She had to be somewhere in that hotel watching, probably on camera. But if that were the case, where was her car? There hadbeen several vehicles here when I arrived, but now, they were all gone.

The unmistakable whir of tires on pavement pulled me out of my thoughts. It was a sound I hadn’t heard since I came out here a full twenty minutes ago. How was that even possible? A street with an interstate exit, a diner, an inn, and a pancake restaurant—and no cars passing by for twenty-four minutes? It was like something out of a sci-fi movie.

By the time the big black truck crested the hill, it was already just feet from the turn-in for the inn. I thought the driver was going too fast, but somehow he managed to slow the truck just enough to make the turn without it becoming reckless.

He pulled right up to the curb, passenger window rolled down, and asked, “Bridget?”

I nodded.

“Hop in.”

I couldn’t tell from his gruff expression whether that was an order or a suggestion. All I knew was this date wasn’t getting off on a good foot. I expected a husband who opened the passenger door for me on our first date.

But I couldn’t really be picky here. I was in Wildwood Valley for a reason. Marriage was just a means to an end.

I opened the door and stared at the seat. There was no step to help me get into this gigantic megabus, and I was only five-foot-four. How the heck was I supposed to do this? Especially in a pencil skirt that was already close to bursting at the seams, thanks to my “thunder thighs,” as my so-called high school friends used to call them.

“I don’t know how…” I said, mostly to myself.

But then I realized how pathetic that made me sound. Come on now. I was a strong, independent woman. I could do this. I didn’t need some man to rescue me.

I shifted my purse, placed both hands on the passenger seat, and hoisted myself up. My groom, Reilly, had popped his door open, ready to climb out and help, I assumed.

“I’m okay,” I rushed to say, freezing his movements.

Finally, I was settled in the seat. That was when I got a good, solid look at the man I was supposed to marry.

Holy shit. I didn’t even cuss, but this guy was worth a few profanities.

Until now, I’d had one picture to go by, and it had been blown up from a much smaller image, so it was kind of blurry. But even through the haze, I could tell he was hot.

This was next level, though. He had muscles for days. In fact, his bulging biceps threatened to burst the seams of his dress shirt sleeves like my hips were doing to my skirt. At least we had that in common.

“You’re Reilly, right?” I asked.

I knew that was his face, plus he’d called me by name. But I had to make sure he wasn’t a mass murderer while my passenger door was open and I could still escape.

“Yep,” he said.

I closed the door and fastened my seatbelt, suddenly realizing a mass murderer would probably lie and say yes to that. But before I could give it much thought, he’d already shifted the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot.

I kept my hands folded in my lap as I stared straight ahead. The seat was warm, and the truck smelled faintly like cedar and leather, which matched the man in the pictures somehow. The one I’d spent the last three weeks imagining, anyway.

“So…” I said, keeping my tone light. “Do you always open conversations with ‘Bridget?’ or is that just reserved for the women you’re marrying?”

He flicked a glance at me—more of a side-eye than a real look—and said flatly, “I’m not marrying anyone.”

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