Page 7 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
I pulled my carry-on from the trunk, its wheels immediately sinking into the mud. "Oh, it's happening, mountain man. Consider it cosmic justice for having friends with internet access."
As I dragged my luggage toward what was apparently now my temporary home, I heard him exhale deeply behind me. Itwas the sound of a man who'd realized there was no way out—a feeling I understood all too well.
I'd escaped one unwanted marriage only to force myself into another. The difference was, this arrangement would be on my terms, for my purposes.
And judging by the way Bodhi Wilder's eyes had darkened when they first swept over me, my plan to shed my inconvenient virginity might not be as challenging as I'd feared. One look at those capable hands told me he'd be perfect for the job—if I could just convince him to cooperate.
I squared my shoulders and marched toward the cabin, leaving perfect boot prints in the mud. Operation Mountain Man Seduction had officially begun.
Chapter Three
“The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”
Bodhi
"What the hell?" I stared at the woman standing in my mud pit of a front yard, sweat already beading on my forehead in the July heat.
Same face as the profile photo. Same red hair. But everything else? Complete bullshit.
Flint's "sweet, wholesome girl with good values" was nothing like the profile photo. Tight white top that made my body instantly react in ways that weren't appropriate for a first meeting. Designer jeans that probably cost more than my monthly expenses. Long nails and lips painted the color of warning signs. This wasn't the meek church girl from the profile—this was a city woman who'd wandered far from her natural habitat.
"Problem?" She cocked her hip, those red lips curving into something that wasn't remotely close to the shy smile Flint had shown me. "You gonna help with these bags or just stand there looking shell-shocked?"
Colonel burst from behind the woodpile and flapped across the yard with all the grace of a drunk penguin, squawking like I'd just invited a fox into the henhouse. For once, the paranoid bastard was right on target.
"There's been a mistake," I said, my jaw clenched like I was back in Ranger training, enduring a dressing down from a drill sergeant.
"You said that already." She sighed, inspecting a broken nail as sweat dampened tendrils of red hair at her temples. "Look, I've driven cross-country in a car that wasn't built for your apocalypse-prepper driveway. I'm melting in this heat, I'm starving, and I've broken a two-hundred-dollar manicure. Can we at least go inside before you toss me back to civilization?"
The tactical part of my brain—the part that had kept me alive in Kandahar—calculated rapidly. Sunset in forty minutes. Mountain roads too dangerous for a city driver after dark. Nearest motel ninety minutes away, minimum.
"One night," I growled, grabbing her designer suitcase. It weighed more than my rucksack had in the Rangers, and I'd carried everything I needed to survive for weeks in that. "We straighten this out tomorrow."
"Such a gentleman." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
I stomped toward the cabin, grateful for my loose carpenter pants. Eight months, three weeks, and two days. That's how long since I'd last been with a woman. Not that I was counting. My body, however, was silently reminding me of every day of that drought.
Colonel scurried after us, his head bobbing with agitation, beady eyes fixed on Scarlett's boots like he was plotting their violent demise.
"Home sweet home," I muttered, shouldering open the door that still smelled faintly of the pine-scented cleaner Flint had brought yesterday. Without his help, the place would've looked even worse. Not that I gave a damn what this woman thought of my living situation.
Scarlett stepped inside and froze, her expression shifting from expectation to horror so fast I almost laughed. She surveyed my living space like an officer inspecting a particularly disappointing barracks.
"This is..." She hesitated, obviously searching for a polite word.
"Functional," I supplied.
"I was going to say 'primitive.'" She wandered further in, stiletto boots clicking against the wooden floor I'd installed with my own two hands. "Where's the rest of it?"
"The rest of what?"
"The cabin." She gestured around as if expecting hidden rooms to materialize. "The stone fireplace? The vaulted ceilings? The hot tub overlooking the mountains?"
I snorted. "You've been watching too much HGTV."
"Clearly not enough." She set her purse—something with initials on it that probably cost more than my truck—on my hand-built coffee table. "No hot tub at all? Seriously?"
"No hot tub. No vaulted ceilings. No stone fireplace." I dropped her suitcase with a thud that made Colonel jump. "This isn't a resort. It's where I live."
