Sugar Mountain: The Complete Series (The Mountain Men of Linesworth Book 4)

by Frankie Love

  Mags rolls her eyes. “Oh, girl, lines that cheesy tell me you need a real man. Stat.”

  I scoff. “Whatever. The author gets me on a literary level. That means something.”

  Mags smiles. “But you need someone on a physical level.”

  Ignoring her I focus on the menu. Everything is over priced. Yes, I’m practical--I’m also running a family on a single income with Christmas a few weeks away. “We should have gone to St. Nicks.”

  “I didn’t want the local dive bar. Or anything fried. And since the guys--and kids--aren’t with us, we should treat ourselves to a proper meal with cloth napkins. And no chicken strips.”

  I bite my bottom lip. It’s true. I can’t think of the last time I sat down at a restaurant with a wine menu.

  We order, and once my glass of Merlot is poured, I take a long sip. I never pause like this, it’s always one thing or the other. It’s Milo’s preschool field trip or Lucy forgetting her lunch money or folding laundry or making dinner or... you get the idea. I’m a single mom and running on fumes most days.

  “You’re right, Mags. This is really nice.” I raise my glass and clink against her club soda.

  “So make me a Christmas promise. No more of that book for a month,” Mags says. “It’s a torture device, I swear.”

  I exhale, knowing I’m beating a dead horse, but I want my sister to understand why this book has meant so much to me since Luke died. “Every time I read it I think, okay, if Sarah, the girl in the book could move on, then maybe I can move on too.”

  Maggie pats my arm in understanding. “I love you. Even if you’re a nerd who roped me into book club, I hope I can be half the mom you are.”

  “Shush.” I blush, hating the compliment. “I’m just ready, you know? To start living again. Really living.” As I tell her this, my eyes sweep across the bar and land on a man who is so not my type.

  Meaning: sexy, built, and sporting a man bun that Portland hipsters are writing jealous blogs about.

  I’m not saying Luke wasn’t sexy--but he was all rough edges and calloused hands--not like this pretty boy with a chiseled body. A body that would never be interested in this mom-jean-wearing widow.

  The fact that this stranger has a beard is the icing on my gingerbread house.

  “Um, you okay Greta?” Maggie asks as the waitress brings us a cheese plate.

  “What? No one,” I say, bringing the glass to my mouth and taking a sip to avoid thinking about the situation happening between my legs.

  I swear to God I never get all hot and bothered like this. Ever.

  But that man will not stop looking at me. Like looking at me.

  It’s been a long time since my body was taken care of by a man. And right now, I’m imagining it all quite clearly.

  “No one what? Seriously, are you all right? It looks like you saw a--” Her eyes follow my gaze across the room and land on my mountain man bun. “Oh. Oh! Greta!” My sister is squeezing my knee from under the table and has that crazed look in her eyes that people get when they think there’s the possibility of living vicariously through you for an evening.

  “Shush,” I say, rolling my eyes. Taking the cheese knife, I cut off a chunk of brie. “There’s no way.”

  “No way what? You are thoughtful, resourceful, and the most reliable person I know.”

  “The three words that can get any man hard,” I snort, thinking those adjectives sound eerily close to the way I’d describe the heroine in the book I’m obsessed with.

  “Oh my god, who are you?” Maggie covers her mouth in shock, not used to me speaking so freely.

  “Seriously, Maggie, look at me.” I motion over my body with a look of dread. I remember after Milo was born, I wouldn’t even let Luke look at me unless I had on a cami. I may have a pretty enough face, but I know what I look like naked. An actual woman. Not a supermodel like the guy at the bar is probably used to dating.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty clear on what I am. Crazy, resourceful, and reli--”

  Maggie cuts me off. “You know what I meant. I meant, in short, that you are amazing.”

  I roll my head back groaning. “I don’t know, Mags, remember Octoberfest when I was dancing with that old guy who ended up being a total creeper? My guy-radar is all off. And even if it weren’t, no guy would want this.”

  “Hey, stop it,” Maggie insists. “You put yourself down constantly as a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s time you remember how to be the girl Luke fell in love with. Truth is, he wouldn’t even recognize you right now.”

  “Ouch,” I say, stuffing more cheese in my mouth.

  “I know you like to say that Luke ruined you for all other men, that none could compare, but maybe that isn’t the truth.”

  I look down at my empty glass of wine, wondering why Maggie insists on making things heavy.

  “And what is the truth, exactly?”

  “You’re scared.”

  “Of what?” I ask, blinking wildly, refusing to cry.

  “Of getting hurt again.”

  There’s a lot of truth in her words.

  I’ve spent the last few years getting in a healthy place emotionally but until I take a leap and put myself out there again, I’ll stay stuck.

  I know that I’m ready to meet someone, but that someone would have to be willing to deal with all my baggage.

  And right now mountain man bun is walking toward me.

  No way in hell is he that guy.

  “I can’t even with that,” I say quietly. “He’s so ...”

  “Interested,” Maggie says with a smile. “Just pretend you aren’t a mom and a PTA member and a Girl Scout troop leader.”

  “Who am I supposed to be then?”

  Maggie grins. “Greta, a sexy woman here on vacation, visiting her sister.”

  As the man saunters toward our table, a swagger in his step that makes me jittery, Maggie adds, “It’s role-play, Greta, not rocket science.”

  3

  Ansel

  I can’t keep my eyes off her. She is the exact opposite of the women I usually sleep with. Women with flat, matte finishes--faces done up to perfection. But this woman is all shine. A bright face, no makeup, eyes that light up the room.

  When I see her looking at me, neither of us able to turn away. I know what I need to do. Buy her a drink, for starters.

  “You gonna go in for the kill?” Jonas asks. He’s an old friend of mine, part of the group that rented a cabin for a few weeks. The only plans we made were to take a break-- the two of them from the Seattle music scene and me from my writer’s block. We thought we’d come to this mountain for a bit and chill out on the ski slopes.

  “Yeah, though I should probably get rid of this fucking pony tail bullshit,” I say.

  “No way, bro.” Jonas slaps the table and Torin laughs into his glass of wine. “You lost that bet fair and square. You wear the man bun all night.”

  “Fine,” I scoff, knowing it was dumb of me to say I’d be able to manage a black diamond after a year off the slopes. I fell on my ass and got a man bun to boot. “But you jackasses are aware that payback’s a bitch, right?”

  “Sure, sure,” Torin says. “But that woman isn’t interested.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She keeps looking away, shaking her head--all antsy. Like she’s scared you’re gonna come over and pounce.”

  “Hey,” I say frowning. “I don’t bite. I purrrr.” The guys crack up and I shrug. “I’m going for it.”

  “Just how long has it been since you...?” Torin asks.

  “Hey,” I scowl. “Ever since the book came out ... I don’t know. I’ve been picky.”

  “That’s not it. You want someone who lives up to the heroine of your novel. No woman is going to be as good, in your mind, as that fictional one.”

  “I want someone who sweeps me off my feet. Is that so bad?”

  “You know how lame you sound?” Jonas snorts.


  “It won’t sound lame when I take her home tonight.”

  “Oh, and somehow you just know that woman is the woman you’ve been waiting for, when you know nothing about her?”

  I look over at her again and she draws me in. I see a fragile, broken flickering in her bright eyes. Like she’s hopeful, even though she’s been through a hell of a storm.

  In short, it’s like she’s resilient. That’s the kind of woman I want.

  I walk toward her, and as I do, I can’t help but think maybe the guys are right. She does seem a little nervous. Biting her lip in a sexy as fuck way and whispering, eyes widening as her friend tells her something.

  Whatever--I can’t back down now. The guys are already killing me with the bet I lost. If I walked away without at least trying to talk to this woman, they’d bust my balls for the rest of our two-week vacation.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching her table. “I’m Ansel.”

  She pushes her lips forward as if debating her next move.

  Come on, girl, just give me a chance.

  The woman beside her laughs. “Really, your name is Ansel?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Uh, yeah ... is that a problem?”

  The woman with the bright eyes shakes her head, reaching for my hand as if needing to console me. “No, no, not a problem. It’s just.” She smiles, pointing to herself. “I’m Greta.”

  I furrow my brows. In part because I want her to keep talking. Her voice is ridiculous--low but not sultry, soft yet not sweet--it’s a voice that makes me feel at home. Centered.

  She explains, “You know, Ansel and Greta. Like the fairy tale, Hansel and Gretal?”

  I grin, thinking it couldn’t be more adorable if we’d made it up. “Would you like me to leave some bread crumbs so you can find me?”

  “Where will they lead me?” she asks.

  “To my bedroom. I promise, no witches with ovens live there.”

  Her face flushes, and she leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. I smile wider, knowing I’m getting somewhere.

  “Does that appeal to you, at all?” I ask.

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” I ask, taking her bait.

  “Will this story of ours have a happy ending?”

  If I was drinking beer, I’d spit it out--her words surprise me. I didn’t expect any innuendo from her, but I like it. A lot.

  She covers her mouth, and the woman beside her smacks her on the shoulder.

  “Greta, you’re so bad,” she cries, shaking her head.

  Greta rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re the one telling me to have a little fun.”

  “I was telling you to take a chance. There’s a difference.”

  “And who are you?” I ask.

  “Maggie, Greta’s sister.” She sticks out her hand and we shake. “She’s staying with me this week while she is here on vacation.” Maggie is bubbly and alive--in a different way than Greta. Greta appears more cool, collected--comfortable in her skin.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Now, would you let your sister off the hook while I buy her a drink?”

  Maggie scrunches up her face. “I don’t know ... we know nothing about you except that you have a man bun. Which is a questionable choice, as far as I’m concerned.”

  I run a hand over my beard, knowing this bun is getting too much attention and not wanting to give it anymore by defending myself. Instead, I go in for the kill.

  “I’m a good guy--single, employed, and here for vacation. I’m just asking for drink, nothing more.”

  Greta bites back a smile. “Nothing more?”

  “Greta!” Mags smacks her sister again, but Greta is already pulling a purse onto her shoulder and reaching behind her chair for her coat. “Hey,” Mags cries playfully. “We don’t even know this man’s last name.”

  “His first name’s Ansel, that’s cute enough for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mags, okay? Don’t wait up.” Greta leans over and kisses her sister on the cheek and I raise my eyebrows, liking this woman who isn’t beating around the bush.

  With my hand on her back, I lead her to the bar where Torin and Jonas are paying their tabs. “You leaving?” I ask them.

  “Yeah, I promised Angel I’d call her before too late, you know how she gets,” Jonas explains. His girlfriend is in Seattle and to say she’s clingy is an understatement. The kind of woman I’m not interested in. I want a woman who has her own life, her own passions. “I’m Jonas, and this is Torin,” he says introducing himself to Greta.

  “I’m Greta.” She smiles warmly.

  “Cute, Ansel and Greta, in a Bavarian-themed town. Did you stage this?” Torin jokes.

  Greta twists her lips, her eyes meeting mine. “Looks like it’s meant to be.” She’s not playing coy. I can tell her flirting plans on following through.

  “I’ll second that,” I say, waving good-bye to my friends, and then pulling out a bar stool for Greta. She slides in with a sigh.

  “Long day?” I ask.

  “Everyday is a long day.”

  I push my lips forward. “You aren’t here on vacation?”

  “Oh, uh, right. Vacation. Here. With my sister.” She smiles broadly, then looks over at her sister who is pulling on a coat to leave.

  “You okay staying without her?” I ask, not having pegged her for needing back up.

  “I’m great. I’m just a lady on vacation having drinks with...” She waves her hand back and forth in front of me. “With you. With you and your...” This time she circles my head with her finger. “With your face.”

  I grin. “I see, so you’re only agreeing to a drink because of the way I look?” I tsk-tsk. “I happen to have a great personality, too.”

  She laughs. “Oh, I’m sure you do, but it’s hard to notice under all those muscles.”

  I shake my head smiling, she is not tiptoeing, I’ll give her that. “You like my muscles?” I pull up my bicep, flexing for her. Showy, sure, but it makes her laugh and right now, it’s worth it. Her laugh is so damn unfiltered, absolutely genuine. It makes me want to rip off my shirt and show her my six pack. Anything to get her to make that sound again.

  “You laughing at me or with me?” I ask, giving her a cocky grin.

  She waves the bartender over. “At myself mostly, I promise.” To the bartender she asks for two shots of tequila.

  My eyes widen. “I would not have pegged you for a tequila girl.”

  “I’m not, usually. But tonight,” she says. “All bets are off.”

  I think about my fucking man bun, if bets are off, then so is this up-do. I pull the elastic from my dark brown hair and shake it out. She watches me, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Eyes filled with longing.

  Good. That’s exactly where I want her.

  “Well, in that case,” I say. “Let’s drink to that.”

  4

  Greta

  There’s literally no reason for him to pick me out of this bar ... but he did. And he isn’t looking at any other woman, his eyes are on me. Well, his hand’s on me, too. It starts on my knee, but after the second shot of tequila, my hand is resting on his shoulder, and then he leans in closer, close enough to kiss.

  I pull away, abruptly. Not because I don’t want this.

  I do want this. Need it, even.

  But I don’t want to kiss anyone in public. Not when the entire town knows about Luke.

  No. I want to kiss Ansel. I want his hands to crawl up my bare back. I want him to lay me on his bed and remind me that I am more than a mother or a sister or a widow. I want to be reminded that I’m a woman, and he’s the perfect man to jog my memory.

  “So what do you do?” I ask, trying to get a feel for this guy beyond his sexy appearance.

  He shrugs. “I’m a writer.”

  This piques my interest. I’ve been a book lover all my life. “Really? Would I recognize anything you’ve written?”

  He looks at me a beat too long, as if deciding what to reveal. “Probably not, I hate talking about my
work anyways. I mean, it’s a good gig, I get to make my own schedule, work where I want, how I want, but it’s still a job.”

  “I get it. I love what I do, but at the end of the day, it’s work.” Still wanting to dig deeper I ask, “So if you had a month off of work, where you could do literally anything you wanted, the sky is the limit, what would you pick?"

  He runs a hand over his beard. “Easy. I’d rent a little cabin on a lake somewhere, alone, with a stack of books. I’d read in a hammock, drink jugs of cheap wine, and take out a canoe every afternoon.”

  I groan. “Oh my god, that sounds amazing. And no Netflix or email--just quiet.”

  He smiles. “Exactly. And I’d throw my smart phone in the lake the moment I arrived.”

  I laugh in agreement. “Right? I hate my damn phone. I can’t stand in line at the grocery store without checking Facebook.” Lowering my voice I add, “I’d say I need a twelve step program to kick my habit--but what I really need is someone to pry the device from my fingers and refuse to give it back.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” he says. “It’s a blessing and a curse, technology. Texting alone is changing our culture.”

  Thinking about my kids, I couldn’t agree more. “And what worries me is the next generation, you know, who won’t know what it’s like to actually speak on the telephone.” But then I shake my head bashfully. “Though, I’m all talk. I love emoji’s.” Raising my hands in defense, I add, “There, I said it. I’m a sucker for a heart-eyed smiley face.”

  “Me too. Sometimes a monkey covering his eyes really says it all.”

  I lean back, grinning. He smiles as he laughs and I can’t help but enjoy the fact we have a lot in common. “Well, I’m glad to know we relate on an emoji level.”

  “And a dream vacation level, too,” he adds

  I nod slowly, biting my bottom lip, wanting to be assertive and honest. “Yeah, except you said you wanted to be all alone in your cabin. I think I’d like company.”

  He raises a brow. “I mean, I’m not opposed to company--it would just have to be the right person.”

  “And what would this person be like?” I ask.