Page 32 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

For me.

A minute passed. Then another.

Downstairs, I heard the faint murmur of voices. The clatter of a pot. One of the Wolfe brothers laughing, maybe Asher, maybe Garrett. Something being fixed, or broken, or set on fire. Who knew with them.

I sat there with my freshly curled hair and perfect highlighter, in a cabin that smelled like woodsmoke and lemon cleaner, and wondered how the hell I was supposed to fit into this picture.

I didn’t know.

But at least I looked good trying.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Asher

I was bored.

Beckett was in the garage, elbows deep in whatever project he could pretend wasn’t just an excuse to avoid people. Garrett was probably reorganizing the emergency supplies for the third time.

And me? I was upstairs, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling fan like it might blink back.

Riveting.

My guitar was in the corner, calling to me like a needy ex, but I wasn’t in the mood to write another sad acoustic ballad about life and loss and metaphorical storms.

No thanks. I’d rather wander into an actual one.

Which, apparently, was happening right down the hall.

I heard movement in the guest room. Soft. Rhythmic. A faint click and rustle that didn’t sound like someone crying or sulking or rage-texting their manager.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer (classic me), and nudged the door open enough to peek inside.

And stopped.

Hard.

Riley Brooks—disgraced darling of the algorithm, queen of curated chaos—was sitting in front of the mirror.

Glowy skin, perfectly tousled curls, lips glossy and kiss-me pink. She looked like she belonged under ring lights and on magazine covers, not trapped in a drafty mountain cabin with three bearded weirdos and zero Wi-Fi.

For a second, I just stood there. Then she noticed me in the mirror.

Her eyes flicked up. “How long have you been standing there like a creeper?”

I stepped inside with a grin. “Long enough to wonder if I walked into a beauty tutorial or a fever dream.”

She rolled her eyes, but I saw the flush creep up her neck.

“You look…” I let the word drag, mostly because I was enjoying her squirm. “Veryinfluential.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, tossing a makeup brush at me. It hit my chest and dropped to the floor. “I was bored.”

“So you decided to transform into a walking perfume ad?”

“Some people knit,” she said. “Some people doomscroll. I contour.”

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