Mountain Man Bun Read online

  Mountain Man Bun

  Mountain Men of Linesworth

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  A Little Holiday Treat!

  Brill Harper

  Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Cassie Leigh

  C. Coal

  Deanna Roy

  Jamie Garrett

  J.H. Croix

  Rocklyn Ryder

  Sophie Brooks

  Stephanie Brother

  Frankie Love

  Also by Frankie Love

  About the Author

  Copyright

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  Edited by

  Teresa Banschbach

  ICanEdit4U

  Copyright © and 2017 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.

  Chapter 1

  Greta

  With an apron covered in flour, I set the book I’ve been down reading on the counter, and pull the pan from the oven. The bakery is filled with the most classic Christmas smell known to man: gingerbread.

  Sheets and sheets of it in fact, as they are necessary to my plan. Over the next few weeks, as we lead up to Christmas, I’m going to make the most adorable gingerbread village for the bakery’s display window.

  Maggie, my sister and business partner, has told me a hundred times this plan is insane—that as a single mom I have enough on my plate this time of year. But as she sweeps into the kitchen, still practically glowing from her recent whirlwind wedding, she isn’t so negative about my December-endeavor.

  “Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here,” she groans. “Can I taste?” She raises her eyes pleading with me.

  I twist my lips into a frown, not wanting to waste a morsel of these perfect rooflines.

  “Come on, Greta,” she begs. “You can’t deny a pregnant woman her cravings.”

  I scoff, knowing a thing or two about pregnancy myself. “It’s not for eating—I mean it. I baked it extra long so the pieces would be sturdier for when I assemble the walls.”

  She groans. “Gah, you’re so lame.”

  Laughing, I turn off the oven. “I won’t argue with you there. Look at me, I’m in the bakery on a Friday night, rereading my favorite book for the twentieth time. Not exactly the poster child for a good time.”

  “Does that make me lame, too?” Maggie asks. “Because in that case, I’m outta here.”

  Smiling, I use a spatula to move the pieces of gingerbread to a cooling tray. “Yeah, you’re lame by association. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.” A piece breaks as I move a rectangle and Maggie grins like it’s payday.

  She opens a fridge and grabs a bowl of cream cheese frosting. Using an inverted knife she smears a hefty layer on the broken piece and moans obnoxiously as she inhales it.

  “It’s AH-MAY-ZING, Greta.”

  I smirk, and take the knife from her hand, making my own nighttime snack.

  “Where are the kiddos?” Maggie asks, chewing with her mouth open like an absolute child.

  “With Hazel and Clive. She promised them a movie night, they’re doing a whole sleepover thing.”

  “That’s sweet,” Maggie says. “But shit, does that mean she’s a better auntie than me?”

  Hazel married our brother earlier this year and she couldn’t have fit in better with our family if she’d been a special mail-order bride. While Mags and I own Two Sisters Bakery, Hazel owns the candy shop a few doors down on Main Street in the Bavarian-themed village where we live.

  Finding a distinct, older sister thrill in ruffling my sister’s feathers, I say, “I think she’s in the running. She even knit them gloves for their stockings.”

  “What?” Maggie’s eyes bug out of their sockets. Then with a cocky shrug she adds, “Well, I planned on getting them candy. I’ll still win Auntie of the Year.”

  I laugh out loud. “You mean candy you bought from Hazel’s shop? I think she’ll still win.” I roll up my sleeves and begin assessing phase two of my gingerbread village. “Besides, you know Lucy and Milo love you to pieces. You were their second mom when I was putting my life back together after Luke died. Even if Hazel joined our family going one hundred miles an hour, you have a pretty good track record, Mags.”

  Maggie shoves the mixing bowl of frosting back in the fridge and I look at the time. It’s eight o’clock and I either need a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

  As if reading my mind, Maggie says, “In that case let me take my older and wiser sister out to dinner. I’m starving and Charlie is on a snow shoe thing for the next three days.”

  I swallow, whenever I think about Maggie’s husband Charlie or my brother Clive taking people out on the mountain, my mind goes to Luke.

  Every. Single. Time.

  To his fatal accident. To the night I lost my husband, the love of my life, much too soon. Charlie and Clive were Luke’s business partners, they co-owned an outdoor expedition company. So I can never get very far from the mountain. And truthfully, the fact that I live at the base of it probably doesn’t help. Every time I look up, I’m reminded of what I lost.

  “Earth to Greta,” Maggie says looking at me as if I’ve gone to outer space. “Come on, let’s go. You need to eat something besides sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe I’ll stay here and make another batch of gingerbr—”

  Before I can complete my sentence, Maggie’s shaking her head and covering my gingerbread with plastic wrap. “No way, you have a kid free night, you ought to enjoy it.”

  Chapter 2

  Greta

  Sitting on a high table in a wine bar bistro that we never frequent, I can’t help but feel out of place. Especially since I’m drinking alone. Maggie’s in the bathroom— taking forever, I might add—and I reach in my purse to grab my copy of Her Fragile Heart while I wait.

  All it takes is rereading a single passage from this well-worn copy for my heart to slow and for me to relax. Every time I open this book it’s like I’m being comforted by my oldest friend. Whoever wrote this novel gets me in a way no one else ever has.

  Maggie slides back to the table and I dog-ear my page, hoping to get it out of her sight before she starts commenting on my choices. I’m not quick enough.

  “Greta, I don’t get the obsession. That story is depressing. Why do you keep reading it?”

  “It’s not depressing,” I say defensively. “It’s real.”

  She snorts.

  “Maybe it didn’t win any fancy awards,” I say. “But it won my heart.”

  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. Y
es, 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.”

  Chapter 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 s
he’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.