by Penny Wylder
Big Mountain
Penny Wylder
Copyright © 2018 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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Contents
Books By Penny Wylder
1. Jenna
2. Jenna
3. Jenna
4. Gil
5. Jenna
6. Jenna
7. Gil
8. Gil
9. Gil
10. Jenna
11. Jenna
12. Jenna
13. Gil
14. Gil
15. Jenna
16. Gil
17. Jenna
18. Jenna
19. Gil
20. Jenna
21. Gil
22. Jenna
23. Gil
Books By Penny Wylder
Books By Penny Wylder
Filthy Boss
Her Dad’s Friend
Rockstars F#*k Harder
The Virgin Intern
Her Dirty Professor
The Pool Boy
Get Me Off
Caught Together
Selling Out to the Billionaire
Falling for the Babysitter
Lip Service
Full Service
Expert Service
The Billionaire’s Virgin
The Billionaire’s Secret Babies
Her Best Friend’s Dad
Own Me
The Billionaire’s Gamble
Seven Days With Her Boss
Virgin in the Middle
The Virgin Promise
First and Last
Tease
Spread
Bang
Second Chance Stepbrother
Dirty Promise
Sext
Quickie
Bed Shaker
Deep in You
The Billionaire’s Toy
Buying the Bride
Dating My Friend’s Daughter
Big Man
Trapped with My Teacher
My 5 Bosses
Good Girls Say Yes
His Big Offer
Dangerous Love
The Roommate’s Baby
Perfect Boss
Cowboy Husband
Knocked Up By Her Brother’s Enemy
Flirt
Lust
Claim
The Wife Arrangement
1
Jenna
As my train pulls into the quaint Bailey Village station, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders.
I love my job, I really do. It’s taken me years to get where I am, but I’m finally doing what I love full-time—taking photographs. But it’s hectic to keep up with the market demand. My boss gives me great assignments, but I hardly ever have time to breathe, between chasing down my next photo shoot, actually doing the shoot, then editing all the photos post-event.
I didn’t notice how stressed I was feeling lately, between the four weekend weddings I photographed in a row on the side, and my regular job shooting events and festivals for the Philadelphia Gazette. But when my boss asked me to take on this project, shooting the big spring festival in Bailey, a small town about two hours outside Philly in the Poconos, for a feature he’s got planned on nearby weekend vacation spots, I practically tackled him to volunteer for the gig.
This is just what I need. A weekend away from it all—the hustle and bustle of the big city, the constant pressure of lining up my next gig practically before I’ve even finished the former, and even just the noise. My apartment is adorable but it’s right in the thick of things, above a bar that doesn’t close until 2am (and doesn’t quiet down until at least 4am) on the weekends, not to mention the traffic and construction sounds during the day.
I like keeping busy, but not at the expense of my sanity.
A whole weekend to myself, just to photograph one sleepy little village’s springtime traditions, with three whole days to shoot to my heart’s content, and plenty of time in between to meander around the village, breathe the fresh mountain air, welcome in spring along with all the locals out here.
I can’t wait.
From the moment I step out of the train station, I can tell I’m going to love Bailey. It’s got that European old world feel to it, with stone cottages as far as the eye can see, and even a cobblestoned street in the center of town lined with cheerily-painted shop fronts in a pastel rainbow of colors. The trees that line the narrow streets are in full bloom. I spot magnolias, even a couple cherry trees, mingled among the usual poplars and maples.
It takes my phone a few minutes to catch up to the slower reception out here—mapping the little hotel in the center of town I’ve booked for the weekend takes a full two minutes—but I don’t even mind. It’s nice to be a little disconnected for once. I have the perfect excuse if anyone tries to bug me over the next few days. “Sorry, no service!”
Finally, the map loads, and I take off, weekender bag slung over my shoulder, winding through increasingly narrow alleys until I get to a street that’s pedestrian only, at the end of which there’s a view of the massive central village square, where I can see people setting up tents and food trucks for the upcoming festival. I spy more than a few beer tents, not to mention catch the scent of some mouth-watering food cooking over an open fire somewhere in that direction.
My hotel is right on the corner, the perfect location for darting in and out in between shooting the festival and events around it. As I stroll up to the entrance, a short man in a red hotel uniform darts out, hand extended toward my bag.
“Checking in?” he calls, before I’ve even reached the entrance. “Let me help you with that.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, grateful, as I shrug the bag off my shoulder. It’s only the essentials, since I’m just here for three days and two nights, but I had to lug most of my camera equipment with me too, so that really adds up.
“Wow, how long are you here for, the whole month?” he jokes as he hoists the bag under one arm.
“I wish.” I laugh. “Sadly, just for the festival.”
“Up from the city?” he asks, sizing up my outfit, and probably also weighing the bag under his arm.
“How could you tell?” I joke, with a glance down at my outfit. Heeled boots, tights, a slim-fitting pencil skirt and my work blouse—I’m not dressed for the countryside yet. I had to come straight from the office today, but it really makes me stand out. Everyone I passed on the walk here was wearing jeans and flannel, maybe with the occasional flowery spring dress, loose and deliciously comfortable looking.
“You’re not the first to check in today,” he reassures me, “and you definitely won’t be the last. It’s crazy—most of the year we have ten guests here max.” We reach the check-in counter and he hauls my bag onto a bellhop cart with comical effort. “This time of year, though, around the festival?” He gesticulates wildly. “Sold out, every single room.”
“How many rooms are there?” I ask as I gaze around the lobby. It’s adorable, just like the rest of this village. The floor is parquet, the walls adorned with full-length mirrors on both sides to make it seem larger than it is. Between the mirrors, there’s gold gilding that looks straight out of a 1920s movie, and old-school style gas lamps, like the kind I’ve seen in photos from London or 1800s period pieces, stand out above the
mirrors, lighting the whole lobby a cheery yellow.
Even so, I can only see two rooms down on this floor, one tucked away behind the staircase that spirals up to the second story.
“Twenty-two in total,” he says as I pass him my credit card and I.D. to begin the check-in process. “Plus a garden room down in the basement—code for windowless and dingy,” he adds.
I smirk. “I live in the city, trust me—I understand that code.”
He sighs. “That’s my room, of course.”
I grimace in sympathy. “Does it at least come with the job?”
“It does, though they definitely deduct the rent from my salary to make up for it.” He forces a smile then, and I feel a pang of empathy. “Ah well, can’t complain. This town really is my favorite spot in the world. You’ll see what I mean later tonight, when the festival gets going.”
“It’s that good, huh?” I reach out to take my cards back, now that he’s finished running them, and cast another glance back over my shoulder, out through the double doors toward the town square. I am excited to peruse the tents out there, for sure. I plan to eat my way through as many food trucks as I can this weekend, not to mention sample some of the local brewery beers later in the evening, after I’ve got enough pictures for the day.
“I don’t want to oversell it, but…” He flashes me a wink. “It’s the best weekend of the year.”
Just then, a breeze hits us, as another traveler swoops into the lobby.
“Welcome, sir,” the man calls, still smiling. “I’ll be with you in one minute, just as soon as I finish checking in this young lady.”
The new arrival doesn’t even seem to notice the receptionist speaking to him, let alone acknowledge his words. He’s got to be a city-slicker like me, to judge from his expensive-yet-artfully-torn jeans, his tight-fitting leather jacket, and the flashy leather boots he’s wearing, which I’m pretty sure cost at least as much as my camera equipment.
On top of the outfit, he’s got his cell phone tucked under one ear, into which he’s shouting loudly as he digs through his enormous leather briefcase. Inside his briefcase, I catch a glimpse of not one but two brand-new MacBooks, and a snakeskin wallet that I’d bet anything cost just as much as his boots.
“I know,” the guy practically yells into his phone. “This village is a shit hole. Look, I didn’t volunteer to come here, it’s just where Henry insisted we hold the retreat this year—one second,” he tells the person on the other end, when the receptionist and I trade sideways, sarcastic glances. “Can I get some service here already?” he barks, and it takes both my new friend the hotel caretaker and me a second to realize he’s not talking into the phone anymore.
“Have a nice stay, Ms. Walker,” the receptionist murmurs to me, having read my name off my I.D. card, no doubt.
“Good luck with this one,” I whisper under my breath, flashing him a wink.
“Oh, I know how to handle his type,” the poor guy replies, in just as low a voice. He raises a single eyebrow as he studies Cell Phone Guy. “Locals here know when to keep their mouths shut and lie low.”
I snort under my breath, then I scoop up my bag and turn to head up to my room on the second floor. As I leave, I hear Cell Phone Guy return to his conversation, still just as loudly, while the receptionist sets about checking him in.
“I mean, last year’s retreat was a fucking ashram in India, I know this is a downgrade of epic proportions. But Christ, they couldn’t find anywhere better than Po-dunk Pennsylvania, population five inbred mountain people? Hey. Hey, bellhop, don’t put the room on that card; I want to use the black for this, better points for mileage…”
My sympathetic grimace remains as I reach the second floor and scurry along to my room. Thankfully, from this height, I can’t hear Mr. Complainer anymore. I fling open the door to my room and burst into a smile.
This was definitely what the doctor ordered. Queen size bed, pretty, understated wallpaper, a desk I’ll be able to use for editing photos in the evenings, if I’m not too tipsy after visiting the beer tents… And a balcony right next to it overlooking the town square. From this vantage, not only can I see the square itself and the tents popping up all over it, but I can also make out the thick forest that borders the far edge of the square and winds away up into the mountains. The Poconos peaks are visible too, snow-capped and still melting in the early spring sunlight. It looks like a fairyland, the sort of magical place you could lose yourself in.
I hope to do that this weekend. Forget about everything. The stresses of work, the bustle of the city. I just want to breathe in all the mountain air I can.
So, energized anew by the prospect of doing just that, I set about unpacking. The faster I get settled, the faster I can head right back outside into this town and start exploring in earnest.
2
Jenna
The festival is every inch as adorable as described. I spend the first hour after its official opening wandering around in wide-eyed, open-mouthed excitement. Then, once the crowds begin to trickle in, presumably as the locals finish up their day jobs on this fine Friday afternoon, I pull out my trusty DSLR and start to snap candids. I get a phenomenal shot of a pair of twin girls, dressed identically right down to their be-ribboned pigtails, sharing an ice cream cone from one of the trucks that advertises itself as locally-sourced, farm-fresh dairy.
I snap another picture of what looks like a big bachelorette party, everyone dolled up to the nines, clinking their enormous local brew beer steins together; and more than a few shots of locals, especially older couples, strolling through the festival and eying all the different wares. There are some adorable craft sellers here, making everything from soap to jewelry to wooden furniture that looks like it would be right at home in a countryside cabin—or in an exposed-brick city center studio trying to dial up the rustic vibes.
Near the latter tent, I can’t help but linger on the seller. He’s in the middle of talking up a cabinet to an older couple he clearly knows, to judge by the way they’re all laughing and leaning close together. But if I’m honest, it’s not the sweetness of the scene that captures me.
It’s him.
At six-foot-something-crazy, with broad shoulders and a beard that would make a Viking jealous, the man stands out above the crowd. Literally. But despite his height, and the bulging muscles I spot underneath the loose flannel he’s wearing, there’s something gentle about his demeanor. The way he grins at the older couple and demonstrates a hidden drawer in the wardrobe, his big hands deftly working the wooden puzzle-like contraption in a way that tells me the man knows how to work with his hands.
My face goes hot. I raise my camera—one of my favorite things about photography is the way the camera lens offers me a kind of shield, like an invisible barrier between me and the world. If I just gawk at people in real life, I’m awkwardly staring. But put a lens between us, and I’m working on high art.
I snap a few photos of the guy mid-sales pitch, and then I force my legs to move, to carry me away from Hunky over there before I leap into the middle of his conversation and do something stupid like inform him how attractive he is.
Pull it together, Jenna. I know it’s been a while since my last hookup, but damn.
For the rest of the afternoon, I finish taking rounds of photos. Then, after the sun sets (and damn do I get some epic sunset photos by hiking a little ways up into the forest and shooting down over the town, with its stone walls and painted rooftops, and the festival awnings and bunting all done up between them), I swing by my room to change into something more suited to the early spring bite in the mountain air.
The hotel is chilly, and weirdly empty—I don’t even hear the shrieks of the children who took up the room next to mine, arriving about twenty minutes after I did. I guess everyone is out at the festival celebrating.
Finished changing, I keep just my bare bones camera with me, no extra lenses or anything. If I pass some scenic moments, I’ll snap them, but for the most part, I pla
n to be done for the evening, and allow myself to enjoy this festival.
With that goal in mind, the first stop I head to is the beer tent. I get myself a little taster half-pint to start, and already I’m addicted to the flavor of this beer, really hoppy, with a great bite to it. I spend a little time chatting to the seller about the brewery, then ask them for a few photos of the tent, along with some action shots of them pouring a few pints.
Okay, so I’m a bit of a workaholic. It’s hard for me to turn that side of my brain off, even when I’ve given myself free time.
After the beer tent, I follow a trail of people headed over to an evening outdoor concert being held just a little ways into the forest. In a big clearing, someone’s built a bonfire and set up a sound stage for a local band. They turn out to be pretty good, and by the third song, I’m dancing hard enough to need to step out of the direct circle of the fire for some fresh air, to clear my head a little. The dancing combined with the heat of the bonfire and the beer I downed are all making me feel pretty tipsy, pretty fast.
