Page 4 of Tempted By the Mountain man

“River.”

“River,” she says, as though chewing over the unusual name. But before I can explain that my mom was about as big a nature lover as they come, the man at her side pipes up.

“My wife’s an author. Anything you do or say might be put in one of her books. I’m Josh,” he says, extending his hand.

“Can I pet him?” Jade asks, her sparkling green eyes fixated on Marty. He’s no longer glaring. In fact, he looks downright sappy. As though he’s already in love with her. With any other woman, that would annoy me. But with Jade, it makes some unrecognizable feeling fill my chest.

Happiness?

Nah. I don’t fucking remember what that feels like these days.

“Go ahead,” I say, nodding.

Marty has managed to roll his window down all the way, both paws hanging out the opening as he enthusiastically greets his new love.

“You’ll want to check her suitcase before she leaves,” the author friend warns. “She might try to steal your dog.”

“Noted.”

Because I seem to have an impossibly hard time keeping my eyes off Jade and the way she eagerly interacts with Marty, I busy myself with loading the luggage into the bed of the truck. The last thing I want is her author friend meddling or figuring out I know damn well that Jade’s not an appraiser. That’ll bring my motives for hiring her into question, and I don’t have the fucking answers right now.

How the hell would I explain that the moment I saw Jade’s angelic face fill my phone screen, I was fucking hooked? That the sound of her voice was enough to make me want to move mountains to get her here?

Never in my thirty-eight years have I ever felt that way about a woman.

I don’t know where this leads or if it leads anywhere at all. But the one thing I do know? I’m desperate to find out.

3

JADE

I feel like a fraud.

Until I stepped inside River’s cabin, I was convinced I could pull this off. That I could pretend that I had a fucking clue about antiques and their values while secretly leaning on Google’s expertise.

How hard could it be?

That mantra and the questionable bravery that came with it were courtesy of my friend Sangria.

“I know it’s a lot,” River says as I linger just inside the front door, staring at the task before me. The sight reminds me of the overflow room the teachers use to stash things they’ll deal with later—later has yet to arrive—but the contents here are more organized and not hidden from daylight.

Marty sits at my side, his giant body pressed against my leg. I absently stroke my fingers behind his ears, thankful he’s here to ground me.

Because of course Natasha and Josh went right for the guest cabin.

They promised to get us settled in, but I’m not stupid. I’d bet my rare book collection that they’re already naked. I have at least an hour to kill—maybe two considering they were not able to join the mile high club on the way out here.

When River mentioned a cabin, I pictured something…smaller. Not the two-story monstrosity perched on the top of the steepest hill in town like some castle. The living room alone is bigger than my apartment.

“Is this all of it?” The question comes out as more of a squeak, so I clear my throat and clarify, “All of what you want me to sort through?”

Stacks of boxes line the walls in an orderly fashion, as though someone catalogued everything ahead of time. The teeniest bit of relief settles in. Maybe I can pull this off after all.

“Not even close,” River says, laughing. It’s a sound my author bestie would describe as a sexy grunt laced with humor or something to that effect.

To say that River Donohue is attractive would be the understatement of the century.

The man is built like a Greek god—something his flannel shirt does not hide well. His light blue eyes are the color of a freshly frosted lake in winter. And that beard…I knew last night when I answered his video call that that fucking beard would be trouble. It’s taken practiced restraint not to run my fingers through it. I might have to stand on a stepstool to reach it. But that’s beside the point.