by Kate Tilney
RHETT:
Kings of the Mountain #3
By Kate Tilney
Copyright © 2020 by Kate Tilney
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Cover Photos by
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
RHETT: Kings of the Mountain #3
Chapter One | Emmy
Rhett
Chapter Two | Emmy
Rhett
Chapter Three | Emmy
Chapter Four | Rhett
Emmy
Chapter Five | Rhett
Emmy
Chapter Six | Rhett
Chapter Seven | Emmy
Epilogue | Rhett
Also by Kate Tilney
About the Author
Emmy
I'm crazy late on finishing my new book. When the publisher says "turn it in, or else" I book a cabin in the Montana wilderness.
Just my luck, the cabin's owner is hot. Really hot. And distracting. Very distracting. Let's just say it's a good thing I'm writing a romance, and I need the inspiration.
Rhett
I needed cash. She needed quiet. It seemed simple enough. But the minute she sets foot in my cabin, it becomes anything but simple.
Still, I don't mind being the inspiration for her new book. Especially not if I get to help with some of the research under the covers.
Kings of the Mountain is a series of steamy, sweet, insta love short story romances. Read RHETT if you like curvy, bookish heroines and alpha heroes who find a happy ending in each other.
Chapter One
Emmy
The airplane skids to a halt. I turn my attention to the window and stare gloomily at the tarmac as I contemplate my fate and what’s to come.
Okay, I’m being melodramatic. Even for me. I may make my bread by penning gothic romance novels, but I’m hardly the heroine of one of my stories.
For one, I’m wearing a chambray shirt from an outlet store, not a long white nightgown. I have a phone in hand, not a flickering candle. And I’m about to spend ten days writing in northwestern Montana—not wandering through an ancient abbey looking for ghosts.
No, I’m a twenty-something city girl who has an agent and publisher that took her literally when she said “give me a couple of weeks in the mountains, and I’ll have a first draft to you.”
Either they really thought I needed this time in exile to finish my book, or they’re calling my bluff. However it happened, I’m here. I should try to make the most of it.
Turning on my phone, I already have a message from my agent, Byron.
Pick-up at the curb. Blue truck. Name: Rhett.
Go on and get it, girl. I expect a sneak peak of steam in my inbox within the week.
I grin at the messages. Trust Byron to be short and sweet and a little ridiculous. Not to mention pushy. I’m sure we’d both like it if I had a bunch of pages to send him. But based on my recent writer’s block, I won’t hold my breath. I hope he won’t either.
With my backpack and small roller bag, I make my way quickly through the airport. Since I only brought the essentials, I can bypass baggage claim. My mom says I’ve been a light packer since I was a little girl. Apparently by the time I was four, I had the whole capsule wardrobe down. The only time I ran into trouble then—and now—was narrowing down what books to bring along.
Even though I’m here to write, I did download a bunch of ebooks to my phone. Just in case.
Stepping outside the tiny airport, I look for my ride, but my breath catches in my throat. With mountains rising to the open blue sky and white glaciers in between, this has to be the prettiest place on Earth. I’d need a full notebook to describe it.
At least I’ve picked an incredible place to try to breathe some life back into my writing.
I’m so captivated by the view, I take a step forward without looking where I’m going. Tires screech, and I glance up in time to watch an oversized truck slam on its brakes.
My heart leaps into my throat.
“Oh my God.” I wobble in place, only my death-grip on the suitcase keeps me upright.
The truck door slams, and a mountain of a man reaches my side. I can’t make myself look up at him as I brace myself for his fury.
“Are you okay?” The words come out gruff and short. There’s an underlying tone of concern and tenderness that has me raising my chin.
My breath catches.
If I was going to write this man into one of my books, I’d say he was barrel-chested with shoulders wide enough to carry a woman over his shoulder. The dark whiskers on his face cover a square jaw and accentuate the high cheekbones. And his eyes . . . hazel with flecks of gold. Like moonlight shining on a marsh. Though he’s wearing a baseball cap, thick swatches of hair curl out underneath it.
If I was going to describe him to Byron, I’d sum it up with “Damn.”
Liquid pools between my thighs. I sway again. This time two strapping arms hold me steady.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I’ve never felt more like one of the heroines in my story. Frightened by her near demise and now captured by the stare of a strong man. Only he’s real.
My hero nods but doesn’t release his hold on me for which I’m eternally grateful.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“I’m okay.”
“Is there someone I should call?”
I shake my head.
His lip curves up to one side, and I nearly swoon on the spot. “Can I at least help you to your car?”
“I don’t have a car.” It’s the longest sentence I’ve managed so far. “I’m getting picked up.”
His dark brown eyebrows draw together. “You’re not Emmerson MacLachlan by any chance?”
“I am.”
How does he know my name? Unless . . . my eyes dart toward the truck I’d nearly run into. It’s blue.
“Are you Rhett?”
A slow grin spreads across his face. If he wasn’t already holding onto me now, I’m pretty sure I’d dissolve into a puddle.
“Ms. MacLachlan, I’m at your disposal.”
I know he means he’s here to take me to my cabin. But if it were up to me, he could sweep me off my feet and carry me to the closest bed.
There, he could do whatever he wanted. I’m sure I’d have zero complaints.
Rhett
Somehow I keep us both on our feet. My heart almost stopped when I thought I might hit the buxom red-head who stepped out into the road as I pulled up to the curb.
I bet I lost a good ten years of my life.
That was before I got a good look at her. With waves of curly red hair a man would like to grab hold of and a round ass I’d like to touch, I’ve never seen anyone more gorgeous.
Unfortunately, I know her type. Beautiful city girl looking for a fling with a local. There was a time when it would’ve been my pleasure to show her a good time. But after I made the mistake of proposing to one of those women only to have her cheat on me before we even set a date, I’ve sworn off relationships.
So why can’t I stop imagining digging my fingers into her lush ass while I bury myself inside of her?
Shaking off the visual as best as I can, and trying to ignore my hard dick, I open the door and lift Emme
rson up into the cab. My hands linger on her hips a moment longer than necessary, but I can’t seem to help myself. She flashes me a quick grin, and there’s no denying the flicker of interest in her brown eyes.
That’s my cue to get moving.
I slam the door shut and suck in a breath. Maybe this whole cabin rental plan was a mistake. Sure it’s never been a problem before. But none of the people who have sublet my place before have had this effect on me.
Grabbing her luggage, which is surprisingly light, I set it in the back and climb into the driver’s seat.
Turning on the ignition, I focus on the road instead of the woman wearing a pair of jeans that mold to her curves so well, they should be illegal.
“You can call me Emmy by the way.”
“Emmy,” I repeat, liking the way it rolls from my lips. “I’m Rhett.”
“So I heard.” She continues to stare at me curiously. “Do you do this a lot?”
“Sublet my cabin?”
She nods.
“I started last spring. It’s not bad money, and I can use it.”
“What for?”
Letting out a sigh, I scratch the back of my neck while keeping the other hand firmly on the steering wheel. “Gotta have money.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the annoyance flash across her face. I could tell her that I’m saving to expand my furniture building company, but I hold back.
“What about you?” I ask. “What brings you to Montana? I take it you aren’t here to hunt or fish.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m here to write.”
“Like a book?”
“Like a book.”
Who’s being cagey now?
“What kind of books do you write?”
“Romance.” There’s more than a hint of challenge in her voice, like she’s daring me to tease her.
Like I would. My mom has read those books as long as I can remember. She was always quick to say they were strong and empowering. I took her at her word. I only read a snippet of one when I was a kid.
“My mom reads a lot of romance. Maybe she’s read some of yours. Do you publish under your own name?”
“I have a nom de plume. It’s Emmerson Lake.”
I’m about to ask about the book she’s writing now, but my phone rings. I steal a glance at the display and see my mother’s number. I swear, the woman has a sixth sense.
“This is actually her,” I say.
Emmy perks up at that. “You should answer.”
“I’m driving.”
“You can put it on speaker.”
While that seems like an invitation for trouble, I can’t quite bring myself to deny this beauty anything.
I click to answer. “Hey, Mama. You’re on speaker.”
“Are you on your way to pick up your guest?”
“In a manner of speaking. Speaking of, I just found out she writes romance novels. Emmerson Lake. Ever heard of her?”
My mom shrieks, and I’m glad the phone is on speaker instead of pressed against my ear.
“She’s wonderful. She really knows her way around a man’s body.”
Emmy straightens in her seat, clearly amused and interested. Mom doesn’t wait for any response from me.
“Men in tight pants and knee-high boots sweeping women in flowing gowns off of their feet. Big, strapping men pressing fair maidens against the walls. Those same men sliding their hands up to the apex of their thighs before—”
“Mom!” My cheeks burn red. I haven’t blushed since I was five. I’m only glad Emmy isn’t here to witness my shame. “Don’t be crass.”
“There’s nothing crass about giving a little praise to a story. I’m only saying Emmerson Lake is a damn fine writer.”
“Then just say that.” I dart a glance Emmy, who’s covering her mouth to hold back a laugh.
“She might even teach you a thing or two about pleasing a lady the next you get the chance.”
Emmy snorts.
“I think we’re done, Mom.”
I hear her give a dramatic sigh on the other end of the phone. “How someone so uptight came from me, I’ll never know. That’s all your daddy.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’ll have to take her word for that, but I hold back. My father was never in the picture. It’s a sore subject. And there’s no excuse to jab at her weak spot.
Besides, we have an audience.
Clearing my throat, my voice takes on a sharp edge. “I maybe should have mentioned this before when I told you I was on speaker phone—”
“Yes?”
I roll my eyes at her impatience. “Like I said, I’m on speaker. And Emmerson Lake, the author renting my cabin, is here.”
The line falls silent, and it’s my turn to grin right now.
“Emmy, I’d like to introduce you to my mother, Debbie Franklin. Mama, meet the woman behind the tight pants and thighs.”
Chapter Two
Emmy
The drive to the cabin flies by thanks to the live entertainment provided by Rhett and his mother. Once the woman recovers her aplomb, she praises me until I blush every bit as much as her son had when she suggested he use my books as a how-to manual.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that everything I write—particularly the sexy parts—are purely from my imagination.
By the time we finish the phone call—and I promise to stop by her general store in town during my stay—we’re nearly to our destination. Through a break in the trees I see a log cabin with a wrap-around covered porch and a large outbuilding behind it.
A grin breaks out on my face.
“This is just perfect. It’s even better than I could have imagined.”
“I hope you’ll find your words here.”
Find my words. What a way to put it? That’s exactly what I’ll do.
***
I’m feeling less optimistic about my writing abilities a couple hours later. After helping me bring in my few belongings and giving me a quick tour of the one-room cabin, Rhett announces that he’ll be staying in the outbuilding in case I need anything.
Not wanting to admit my disappointment in his leaving—even if he’ll be close—I make sure he knows I’m sure I’ll be fine. I can’t let him think I’m helpless. More, I don’t want him to know I wish he’d stay.
I grab a quick shower, change into one of my favorite pairs of leggings and an oversized tunic, and I settle in the middle of the king-sized bed with my laptop.
I stare at the blank screen for at least an hour willing the words to come. Every so often, I type in a few but pound the backspace before I finish a sentence. It seems a change of scenery and total silence isn’t enough to cure my writer’s block. Except it’s not completely silent. Now that it’s night, I’m all too aware of every rustle outside.
I’m about to start a sentence for the fortieth time when I hear a howl. Is that a wolf? My heart pounds in my ears and I toss the laptop aside to race to the window. Pushing back the curtains, I look out. There’s nothing in the darkness except the light shining from the other building.
I wonder what Rhett’s doing now. I could always throw on a jacket and go find out. I have a bag of cookies stashed away. I could offer him one. It would be the neighborly thing to do.
No, I’m not going to make up excuses to see him. No matter how much I’d like to study those broad shoulders and stare into his chiseled face. I came her to write. Not jump the first mountain man I run across.
Even if he looks like was carved by the gods himself.
Glancing around the room, I hone in on the fireplace. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll start a fire. Make a cup of cocoa. Then I’m sure my fingers will be itching to write.
Considerately, Rhett has already placed a couple of logs in the fireplace. It’s been a while since I lit a real fireplace instead of a gas version, but I’m sure it’s like riding a bike.
I adjust the logs and kindling, then strike a match. It burns out. So I strike a second. T
hen a third. Blowing hair out of my face, I wise up and light two matches at once and get them into the kindling before they go out. It works.
Leaning back on my heels, I nod in satisfaction and head over into the kitchen area. While I assemble the materials, my mind wanders back to Rhett. He’s every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as any of the characters I’ve imagined for my stories. He also has the broody, strong silent thing going for him too. But under it all, there’s a hint of something more. Like below the hard surface, there’s a sensitive soul capable of reciting poetry.
My nose tickles. Smoke. I turn on my heel and come fact to face with a curtain of smoke.
Rhett
Emmy forgot the most important step in building a fire in a fireplace: opening the flue. It’s obvious the second I open the door to the cabin.
Shoving her behind me, I wave off the smoke and reach the fireplace. I grip the key and turn it. The smoke instantly changes paths and rises up through the chimney. I run to the windows and throw them open to clear the air.
There doesn’t seem to be any smoke damage in the room. It’ll probably smell like a fireplace for a few days, but that’s it.
I turn my attention back to Emmy. Her back is pressed against the wall next to the door. Her eyes are wide with terror.
Her fear clutches at my heart. With a few strides I’m back at her side. I pull her against my chest. She gives a small shudder, and I tighten my hold.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my cheek pressed against her mass of curls. Those curls tickle my nose as she nods.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No harm, no foul.”
“I could’ve burned your house down.”
I can’t resist grinning at that. “It was just a little smoke.”
“But it could have—”
“It didn’t.” I give her a little squeeze. Despite the seriousness of the situation, my muscles clench against her soft curves. It’d be so easy to lean down and kiss her. I release my hold before I can give in to temptation. “Just open the flue next time you start a fire.”
