by Frankie Love
The Mountain Man’s Muse
A Modern Mail-Order Bride Romance
Frankie Love
Contents
Copyright
About
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Preview
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
Copyright
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Edited by
Teresa Banschbach
ICanEdit4U
Copyright © 2018 by Frankie Love
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
About
When River orders a wife, he’s hoping she’ll cure his writer’s block.
But when he meets his bride, he knows she’s more than a quick-fix— she’s his muse.
Rose needs a quiet place to record her yoga videos, and a lakeside cabin in the middle of nowhere is better than her L.A. apartment.
Yes, it means she’s a mail-order bride, but Rose isn’t scared of a challenge.
River is handsome and knows how to use his hands. So what if he’s a bit of a recluse?
She’ll take a deep breath and take it one day at a time.
Except someone is after her— and tracking her every move.
She may be his muse—but she needs a hero.
Dear Reader,
River’s more than a mountain man; he’s a romantic at heart.
He’ll make you swoon, sweat, and have you packing your bags to be the next mail-order bride in this series.
xo, frankie
Prologue
River
Money doesn't buy happiness, but it can buy a wife.
And I'm hoping that leads to some sort of happiness.
Because right now, from where I'm standing, I know I'm missing something.
I've been burned by women plenty of times. You write a handful of bestselling novels that get turned into award-winning films and people start looking at you differently.
They start seeing you as a prize, not a person.
That's why I called Isabella Rosalind, matchmaker to the wealthy.
She says she'll find me the perfect bride. Which I need. Out here in the wilds of Alaska, there aren't exactly women I can swipe right up. The closest bar is forty minutes away and I've never seen a woman under the age of fifty in that establishment.
If I want a wife, I need some help.
"How old?" she asks when we talk on a video call.
"Under thirty."
"Education?"
I shake my head. "I don't care about college degrees. I’m a self-taught writer. I want a woman who is kind, passionate, and most importantly, able to handle solitude."
Isabella nods. "And looks. What kind of woman are you most attracted to?"
I run a hand over my beard. "Looks?" Clearing my throat, I tell her the truth. "I don't care about all that. Someone pretty, sure. Easy on the eyes, great. But what I really want is a woman who is like a breath of fresh air, who can get me out of my fucking head, and who can remind me to stop and smell the roses."
Isabella nods, taking notes. "And with where you live, could a bride continue her career?"
I shrug. "Depends on the career. I have Wi-Fi and a quiet piece of land on a private lake, but not much else. No customers are gonna come this far. If she has a job, it would have to be pretty damn specific."
"Fantastic, River. And how soon are you wanting your bride?"
I look around my big waterfront house that's never felt like a home. "Soon. As soon as you find her."
Chapter One
Rose
"Oh, so nice and bendy!"
"You can go down dog on me, girl."
"I bet I could stretch you out!"
That last one is the final straw.
"Can you seriously get the hell away from me?" I shout, pulling myself up from Kapotasana and glaring at the cat-callers who don't have a shred of decency in their overpriced suit-covered bones.
Where are all the nice, normal men? I'm sure there's got to be some left in the world.
They definitely do not live in L.A.
I roll up my yoga mat, slip on my sandals, grab my tote bag and head for the bus stop. I thought coming to a park might be less noisy than my apartment complex, but I was wrong. There isn't a single quiet place in this city. Everywhere you go, there are horns honking and angry pedestrians shouting. Everyone is always glaring down at their phones to avoid the smog-covered sky.
Waiting for the bus, I make a mental note not to return to Griffith Park. If only my job situation wasn't such a bust, maybe I could afford a place further from downtown. I hope to get to Sedona one day, maybe Palm Desert. Somewhere private, where I could make my videos without the noisy cityscape ruining the vibe.
It seems like every third person in this city is a qualified yoga instructor. Maybe it's the promise of sunshine that lures otherwise well-balanced people here. But it's like once they arrive, they become douche-canoes.
And it's seriously killed my job prospects. No studio will hire me because I have zero experience teaching a class. I try to keep my checking account in the black by working as many shifts as I can get at the corner deli, but it's as tight as the tension in my shoulders. This afternoon workout was clearly cut way too short.
As I get off the bus fifty-five minutes later, a man stops me on the sidewalk. He's carrying a yoga mat too, so it should be a pretty non-threatening situation. But instead of being, you know, considerate, he says, "Hey girl, I could bounce a quarter off that asana."
Yoga puns are worst when they are given by men with man buns and creepy eyes. Let's just say I keep walking the four blocks to my apartment without looking back.
I grab my mail; an overdue water bill and a student loan payment that I can't afford. I mean, why does Sallie Mae think I dropped out in the first place?
There was no way I could afford to work full-time while struggling through class. Maybe for some people, school is a breeze. For me, it was always hard. And without a family to pick me up when I fell, I didn't re-enroll after my second year.
I'm not a victim, I'm just not a scholar. So, I figured out what I am good at -- yoga. I just haven't exactly landed on my feet yet. Most days, I'm winning if I remember to inhale, exhale, repeat.
As I walk up the three flights of stairs, my stomach rumbles. The scent of my neighbor, Fiametta's cooking fills the corridor. The aromas of fresh basil and roasted garlic waft toward me and I feel woozy with hunger.
She sticks her head out of her door as I pass, and she calls after me. "Rose, my bellisima, did you see what they put on your door?"
"Put on my what?" I ask, coming to a stop at the end of the hall. A bright orange paper flags me down.
FINAL EVICTION NOTICE
"What happened, ma bella?" Fiametta asks as I rip the notice from my door, reading the bold print a second time.
MUST LEAVE PREMISES IN SEVEN DAYS UNLESS ACCOUNT PAID IN FULL.
I groan inwardly, realizing this is the new low. If I lose my apartment... I swallow, blinking back tears.
"Come inside, you need food," she says, pulling me into her apartment that always manages to lead me back to what Italy must have been like a century ago. With porcelain plates and braids of garlic hanging on the wall. There are thick carpets, stacks of books, and the food. Always delicious food. A fresh-from-the-oven lasagna is on the counter and I wipe away the drool as I explain what happened.
"Tony at the deli needed some help. His car broke down and he was in a jam. So, I lent him money. Then Jana needed help with her vet bill. Her cat got cancer and I couldn't just--"
Fiametta interrupts me as she waves her hands in the air. "Rose, you see the problem? You help everyone and don't help yourself."
"It's not just that," I say, sighing. Truth is, I spent the last of my savings on a video camera and editing software. If a studio won't hire me, I figured I could be a YouTube yoga sensation. Ambitious maybe, but I can't just roll over and let life bulldoze me.
Unfortunately, every time I upload a video, all I get are dozens of comments telling me that while the videos are great, they are too noisy.
My channel is called Stop and Smell the Roses: Yoga with Rose. And now, unless I find a way to solve my rent situation, it looks like I'll be pawning that new equipment for cash.
I swallow, thinking again of the commenters. One commenter in particular constantly makes mention of the way I look, the way I move.
I'd be flattered if it didn't feel so intrusive. One comment mentioned that he had watched the video over one hundred times.
I may be naive about men, but I know that isn't normal.
"Whatever it is, you can't keep living like this," she says pinching my cheeks. "You look more miserable every day."
Fiametta pours me a glass of Chianti and tells me to sit as she dishes up two plates of piping hot food.
"It’s the city, it's wearing me down. I don't know how you've managed to stay here for so long."
"I know, my girl. But I'm an old lady, eighty-six years old. Where would I go now? Besides, my daughter, Isabella lives in L.A. My family is here. It's all I've known since my dear Ricardo died, God bless his soul."
The lasagna noodles are freshly made, and they melt in my mouth. "This is heavenly. I could marry this pasta, Fiametti. It's perfection."
She laughs warmly, and it lights up the room. It's a laugh filled with experience and wisdom. The kind of laugh that makes me lean in and listen closely.
"Marry pasta? That's crazy. But what you do need, is a husband."
"Husband?" I nearly choke on my food. "I've never even been in love."
"Love?" Fiametta shakes her head at me, tsk-tsking me like I'm a fool. "You marry, then you fall in love. Not the other way around. At least, that is how it was in the old country when I married."
"You didn't love Ricardo when you got married?" I frown in surprise; she loved her Ricardo, brings him up in every conversation, wears a photo of him in the locket around her neck.
"How could we love? We had never met."
My eyes widen with curiosity. "Seriously?"
"Yes, you know, my Rose," she says, lifting a finger and waving it in the air. "Maybe that is what you need. An arranged marriage."
I scoff. "Those don't exist anymore."
"What?" She frowns. "What do you think Isabella does for a living?"
I grimace, embarrassed I don't know her daughter's profession. We've been neighbors for nearly six months. "Uh, no idea, sorry."
"She's a matchmaker."
"A matchmaker? What does that even mean?"
"She has an agency. They send women from all over the country to rich men wanting mail-order brides."
"It's legit, like, a real thing?"
Fiametta nods proudly. "Yes, she is very successful. Matches made with 100% accuracy."
"If your daughter is so successful, then no offense, but why do you live here?" I look around the tiny apartment, confused.
"Oh, sweet girl, this is where I lived with Ricardo, all our lives. Why would I leave my home because I have the money to do so?"
"Uh, maybe so you don't live in a sketchy part of L.A. with annoying neighbors and sewage problems and no air conditioning?"
Fiametta laughs, handing me the basket of garlic bread. "No, those things, they don't matter."
"That's something people with money say," I mutter, taking a bite of the warm-from-the-oven bread.
Fiametta reaches over the table, patting my hand. "No, my girl, that is something people who are happy with the life they have say."
I think about all the obnoxious men in L.A., and about the dead-end, I'm in. The eviction notice.
"Were you scared?" I ask her. "On your wedding day?"
She leans back in her chair, a warm smile on her face, memories filling her eyes. "Not scared. I was ready to start a new chapter in my life. Thankful for a chance to live my dreams."
"You didn't see marriage as a trap? As a way to get stuck in a life you didn't want?"
Fiametta sets her hand on mine. "No, never a trap. A way out. I wanted to learn to cook and have babies. I needed a home and a husband to do those things with where I was in life. Some girls, maybe Isabella, my daughter -- she has a different plan, different road. But you know, sometimes we get an eviction notice and need another path to open up. Maybe an arranged marriage is your path, Rose."
Maybe it's the way she speaks so lovingly of Ricardo. Maybe it's the idea of moving far, far away from L.A., maybe it's the promise of a life that isn't just a struggle.
Maybe it is the chance for an adventure. But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a stirring in my heart. As a yoga instructor, I practice listening to my gut instincts. They have never led me astray.
I set down my fork, wipe my mouth on the linen napkin, and make up my mind.
"Fiametta," I ask. "Can I have the number to your daughter's agency?"
Chapter Two
River
When I'd write a book, I would pore over the pages for months… years even. I analyzed every detail, every line of dialogue, every description, wanting the paragraphs to hum. To fucking sing.
But that was before writer’s block set in three years ago.
Since then, I stare at the fucking screen for hours a day, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, my mind racing with nothing.
That's why I called the matchmaker in the first place. I needed something in my life to shift.
When I sold my first book, I was overwhelmed. Shocked. A little punch drunk on finally succeeding at the one thing I'd worked so damn long for. I was able to repeat the success a few times because I had been working on books for years, ready for my first big break. I had a stockpile of novels and sold them one after the next.
Then I started doing interviews, had book tours, signings, and people started asking me about my next project.
The more I talked, the less my fingers cooperated until suddenly I couldn't find inspiration to write at all. It was as if I had talked myself into a creative corner.
The more I explained my ideas, the more they disappeared into thin air.
It all happened so fast. One minute I felt on top of the world, the next, I ran to the farthest corner of the country and tried to hide, thinking maybe if I had absolute solitude, I could work again.
It hasn't happened yet.
Maybe my bride will be the thing that kicks me into gear.
As I'm getting ready to trek to town, my literary agent, Kenneth, calls. I answer the phone preparing for his weekly check-in. He may not have sold a book of mine in ages, but the money he has made from me in the past gives him enough motivation to keep me on the front burner. I put him on speakerphone and prepare myself for his sarcasm.
"Another week of you staring at the lake?" he asks, and his voice carries the weight of a lifelong Manhattanite: money and snark.
"Not exactly. It's a big week, actually." I look in the b
athroom mirror, rolling up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. I may be a transplant to Alaska, but I was born and raised in Montana. I know a thing or two about the outdoors.
"Oh yeah, gonna get some writing done?"
"Not exactly. It's a busy week for me personally, not professionally."
"Oh yeah, personally? What, they finally get Tinder up there in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?"
"Why, are you interested in a visit if I say yes?"
He laughs. "I'll come to the woods when you get a book done. Hell, a fucking chapter. You're killing me, Riv."
I don't answer; it's not like my writer’s block is just affecting him. It's ground my life to a halt.
"So, why are you so busy this week?" he asks, reading my silence like a fucking foreshadow of what's to come. Nothing.
"I'm actually getting married today."
"What the hell, man?" Kenneth begins cracking up as if it's some joke. "You? The man who is about as friendly as a goddamn mountain lion is getting married? To whom? Did some poor hiker get lost in the woods? Did you kidnap her and tie her up in the basement?"
He thinks he's so damn funny.
"You, know," he continues, still laughing, catching his breath, "there's a book idea for you. Forget this flowery literature you like to write. You could do thrillers. Alaskan suspense, which could be a thing."
"All right, Kenny, I gotta go. I have a bride to pick up at the airport."
