Page 12 of Oops I Fell For The Mountain Man Next Door

"Release the statement." I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay focused.

"What statement?" The publicist pauses at the other end of the call.

"The truth. I canceled the wedding before Lana and became involved. She had nothing to do with my decision. She wasn't the other woman."

"And your relationship?" The publicist’s voice turns cautious as the silence lingers.

My throat closes. "There isn't one." I watch the car drive away, then hang up with my publicist.

After watching the woman I love drive away, I pack my bag, return to the city, and within days, the stories about Lana fade. The scandal returns to me, exactly as I intended—to protect her name.

I saved her from a headline and gave her heartbreak. The realization tastes like ash.

eight

Lana

Three Months Later

Ishove a case of cabernet across the tasting-room floor, harder than necessary, thinking about Marx and how he has invaded my space. It was bad enough when he left me three months ago, but now that he’s returned to Temptation Ridge as its latest resident in a cabin right next door to mine, my life couldn’t get any worse.

"That box didn't do anything to you." Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.

I straighten and glare at Liv. My younger sister is perched on a stool behind the counter, smiling at her phone. I don't need to ask why—Keanu. Everything is Keanu lately. Keanu said this, Keanu did that, Keanu sent me this, Keanu tattooed that. Actually, I don't want to know what else Keanu might have tattooed—especially given the location of Liv's first tattoo.

Seeing Liv so happy should give me hope. Instead, it only reminds me that happiness always seems to belong to other people. Life was so much better before Keanu, when I could crash on Liv’s couch whenever I wanted to get away from my own cabin without worrying about running into a naked Keanu roaming around the house.

"I know the box didn't do anything," I growl.

"You kicked it." Liv quickly types a message on her phone.

"I nudged it." I lift my chin, daring her to argue.

"You called it a lying bastard." Liv's mouth curves with mischief.

"I was speaking metaphorically."

Liv slowly lowers her phone. "Lana."

I know that tone—I am absolutely not going to get a lecture from my younger sister. "I'm working." I press my lips together.

"You're avoiding." Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.

"Also working." I shift my weight, trying not to show how right she is.

"It's been three months since you last talked to him. He’s your neighbor now—you can’t keep ignoring him.” My stomach tightens at the memory—ninety-two days. Not that I'm counting—I'm definitely not counting. Only pathetic women count the exact number of days since a man broke their heart. "Lana?"

"I'm fine." I pick up a case of wine and set it on the table.

"You're absolutely miserable."

The tasting-room door swings open before I can throw a cork at her—Lyra walks in with Owen. My twin sisters are identical, but lately they're easy to tell apart. Liv has a tattoo-artist glow, and Lyra has a mountain-man glow. Apparently, there's a difference. While I've got that bitter single-woman vibe.

Liv glances out the window, whispering, "Oh, crap."

I turn toward the window—a black pickup pulls into the gravel lot—a black pickup I’ve been trying to avoid for the past few weeks. The driver's door opens, and boots hit the gravel. My eyes travel up from the boots to the well-worn jeans, to the flannel shirt, to the dark hair, slightly longer than I remember. But what catches me off guard is the beard—Marx has a freaking beard.

"Is that Marx?" Liv tilts her head, watching me too closely.