Page 1 of Her Mountain Boss
One
Sophia
The tires of my old but reliable Toyota SUV crunch over gravel as I turn off of the tree-lined road and onto a winding, narrow lane almost entirely obscured by sun-dappled pines stretching up towards the blue sky. Honestly, I would’ve missed it if not for the large wooden sign with the Blackwood Lodge logo on it.
Rocks ping against the underside of the car as I follow the road, feeling like I’m heading deeper and deeper into the woods. The pines give way to deciduous trees, all aflame with gorgeous fall colours. Birches, elms, ash, all in shades of red, orange, and yellow. It’s so beautiful that I shut off the music, taking in the scenery around me.
I follow the road around a final bend and then suck in a breath as the Lodge rises up before me. It’s a rustic but luxurious A-frame building made out of wood and river stone, surrounded by pines and gardens. I pull into a parking spot, cut the ignition and just stare. This place doesn’t look quite real. Like it’s AI generated or something. To the left of the lodge, a glacial lake sits, nestled at the base of towering mountains. Guest cabins arescattered behind the lodge and through the forest on the other side of the parking lot. A lush apple orchard stretches out to the right of the lodge, bright red fruit gleaming in the afternoon sun.
It’s like something out of a wilderness fairytale. And while I normally consider myself a city girl through and through…I think I could get used to this. It’s rustic, sure. But I also happen to know that it’s a five-star resort with a Michelin-starred restaurant. Guests reserve their cabins a year in advance, and the spa is fully booked six months out. Honey Ridge might be a small town, but there’s no denying that Blackwood Lodge is a draw.
I turn off the car and step out, taking a deep breath of mountain air. It’s crisp and cool, and wakes me up after my four-hour drive from Edmonton. I stretch my stiff muscles and take another deep breath. The air smells incredible. Like mountains. I can smell pine and cedar. Woodsmoke and apples. The loaminess of the forest and the freshness of fall.
The gravel crunches softly beneath my boots as I walk slowly around to the back of my car and lean my butt against the bumper, taking it all in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the Blackwood Lodge property.
And I get to spend the next three months interning here.
When I first went to university, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I tried linguistics, archaeology, philosophy, psychology. Nothing felt like a good fit. I ended up graduating with a degree in archaeology and philosophy with a minor in art history (just to make myself extra unemployable). It wasn’t until I worked a summer job at a hotel between my third and fourth years that I started to think about hospitality services as a career. Now, here I am, two years later with a fresh hospitality management diploma and zero job prospects.
Which is why I’m here. To gain experience. To have something relevant to put on my resume. Luckily, my mommarried Derrick Callahan back in the spring, and Derrick’s younger brother Ford just happens to be the owner and manager of Blackwood Lodge. I’ve never met Ford, but I’m already grateful to my step-uncle for taking a chance on me and giving me the opportunity when he didn’t have to.
Clouds flit in front of the sun, casting dappled shadows. A chickadee chirps merrily from a nearby tree, and I hear the hammering of a woodpecker. Wind rustles the leaves in the trees, sending a perfect, red maple leaf swirling to the ground at my feet.
I want to squeal with absolute delight, but I don’t. I need to be professional. I need to make a good first impression. I need to make sure Ford—am I supposed to call him Uncle Ford? Mr. Callahan?—doesn’t regret giving me this amazing opportunity. Three months of experience at a five-star resort like Blackwood Lodge will surely get me in the door somewhere else. So, despite the excitement swirling in my belly, despite the nerves charging through me, despite the fairytale setting I suddenly find myself in, I need to be professional. I can’t screw this up. I won’t screw this up.
I take one final deep breath, pulling more of that addictive mountain air into my lungs, and then turn back to my car, hauling my rolling suitcase out of the trunk. I’m not entirely sure where I’m supposed to go, but I figure the main lodge is as good a guess as any, so I head in that direction, my big suitcase bumping along behind me, scraping over the gravel path. Pebbles flick against my ankles and calves, kicked up by the battered wheels of my suitcase.
And then, my steps falter, my suitcase bumping awkwardly into my leg as I come to a complete stop. Several feet ahead, a man stands on the large porch of the lodge, having just emerged through the front doors. He looks like…well, he looks like a girl’s lumberjack fantasy come to life, honestly. He’s huge, firstof all. Well over six feet tall, with ridiculously broad shoulders and tree trunks for arms. Even bigger tree trunks for legs. His hair is dark, streaked heavily with silver, with a matching, neatly groomed beard. He’s wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt, open over a plain white T-shirt that clings to him, revealing a strong, thick torso. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, and even from where I’m standing, I can see several colourful tattoos swirling over his corded forearms.
Who is that?
God, I can’t stop staring. I’m frozen in place, drinking this stranger in. Never, in my twenty-four years, have I seen a man who looks like him. Who makes me want to climb him like a lost little monkey. Truth be told, I’ve never been all that interested in boys. Men. Whatever. Which, when you’re as horny as I am, is a bit of an inconvenience.
But, like…have you met men? I tried dating in university. Yuck. I’ve dipped my toe into the dating apps. Yuck times a thousand. I want dick, sure. But I also want to be treated with respect. I also want to spend time with someone with a personality beyond investing in bitcoin or loving the Edmonton Oilers. Yawn.
So, instead of dealing with real life men, I bury myself in smutty romance novels and have a collection of toys I use on a regular basis.
Ahem. Anyway.
I’m still staring at the man, practically drooling over him, when his head turns in my direction, cementing me in place with a pair of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He frowns slightly as he stares at me, nostrils flaring, muscle in his jaw ticking.
Oh, god. If he’s a grump, I don’t know how I’m going to restrain myself. I have a thing for growly grumps. As long as he’s soft for me…well, notsoftexactly, but I think you know what I mean.
He looks away, scrubbing a huge hand over his closely-cropped beard, and I think he’s about to go back in the lodge when his eyes flash back to me. We stare at each other from across the parking lot, neither of us moving, neither of us saying anything. My heart is going haywire in my chest, my nipples pebbling in my bra. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. Something is happening. I don’t understand what, but I can feel something shifting, like an atmospheric pressure drop before a storm. The hairs on the back of my arms stand up, as though there’s lightning in the air.
Again, I’m struck by curiosity. Who is this man, and why do I feel this way just from looking at him?
I lick my lips, take a breath, and force myself to start moving in the direction of the lodge. He watches me the entire time, brows slashing down, a frown pulling at his face. Maybe he’s an employee who doesn’t like the fact that the boss’s step-niece has been given an internship.
Just as I reach the short set of steps that lead to the porch, he starts moving, bounding down the stairs, his booted feet shaking the planks.
“I’ll take that,” he says, and before I can figure out what the hell he’s talking about, he’s taken my suitcase from me. “Sophia, right?”
His voice, like the rest of him, is also something out of a fantasy. Deep and gruff and deliciously masculine. The sound of my name in that low, rough tone has my toes curling in my shoes. But…how does he know my name? Did Ford—Mr. Callahan?—tell him to expect me?
“That’s right,” I say, managing to pull myself together despite the heat blooming over my cheeks. I extend my hand towards him, my entire body singing in anticipation. His gaze flicks down to my hand, and I can tell he has an internal micro-debate over whether or not to shake my hand.
But then he does, and oh.Oh.His hand is huge and warm and rough, completely engulfing mine in a way that has heat pooling low in my stomach. Electricity races up my arm, my skin tingling, my pulse racing. I want to live in this moment forever. I want to bottle this heady sensation so that I can keep it.
