Page 4 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
There’s another loud snort, drawing me back toward the living room. I tiptoe down the hall, tightening the grip on my phone. Ready to call the police if necessary.
Oh, God. We’re in the middle of nowhere. It could take someone forever to get here. I look around and lock eyes on a ski pole, and pick it up to arm myself.
Stevie swore no one would be here until tomorrow. She’d asked me to come up early to make sure the kitchen was stocked and add a few cozy touches before she and Grady arrived for the holidays.
I’d spent the night before unpacking groceries and sitting in front of the fireplace, enjoying the solitude.
Now? Solitude apparently snores.
I edge toward the great room, the rich smell of pine and smoke curling through the air. The fire I built before bed is still a low glow in the stone hearth. A pair of boots sits haphazardly near the door, dusted with snow. A heavy parka is draped across the back of the couch.
And the man.
He’s sprawled across the cushions, all broad shoulders and long legs, a blanket half-tangled around his hips. His shirt is twisted, revealing a sliver of hard stomach and a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath worn jeans. One big hand rests over his chest, rising and falling steadily. His face, shadowed with a thick beard.
He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
He’s handsome in that unbothered, too-good-looking way that no doubt spells trouble.
For a moment, I just stare. My pulse jumps—pure instinct—and then irritation shoves its way in right behind it.
Who the hell passes out in someone else’s living room like this? Especially somewhere this remote?
I stomp my way into the living, the sound making him grunt but not stir.
“Great,” I mutter. “He’s alive. Unfortunately.”
My phone buzzes from my pocket. I fumble it out and answer in a whisper. “Hey, Stevie.”
“Morning!” my best friend chirps. “You make it okay yesterday?”
“I made it just before the snow picked up.” I keep my voice low and glance at the couch. “But, uh… quick question.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you send someone up early?”
There’s a pause. “No, why?”
“Because there’s a man in the living room.”
“What?” she squeaks. “Wait—what kind of man?”
“The alive kind. Big. Loud. Currently drooling on your throw pillows.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, then a muffled laugh. “Oh no. You’re talking about my brother. Aren’t you?”
My stomach sinks. “Yourbrother?”
Now the familiarity makes sense.
“Thatcher,” she confirms. “He must’ve decided to come up early. He’s been… going through it. You know, suspension drama.”
“Suspension,” I repeat.
“From hockey,” she says with a sigh. “Long story. He’s a handful but mostly harmless.”
“Mostly,” I echo dryly, staring at the mountain of man on the couch.
