Claimed By The Mountain Man: A Modern Mail-Order Bride Romance Read online

  It felt pretend, as stupid as that sounds. Because the required blood test and background check sure as hell were real. The intensive interview held by Monique was real. The truckload of stuff Delta, Amelia, and I dropped off at the Goodwill while cleaning out our apartment was real. The suitcases I packed with all my worldly possessions were real.

  Still, the idea that I had a man actually waiting to marry me? Not even close to feeling like reality.

  But somehow, stepping off the airplane in Anchorage, Alaska, with Delta and Amelia beside me, all of a sudden it became hella real.

  It became OMG WTF get me the eff away from baggage claim real.

  Because baggage claim is where my soon-to-be-husband is waiting for me.

  “I have to go, I have a connecting flight,” Amelia says. “So I think this is good-bye.”

  Her fiancé is in a different part of Alaska than mine or Delta’s. Apparently the state is pretty huge. Maybe we should have looked at a map more closely.

  “Why are we doing this again?” I ask them frantically as they pull me into a tight hug.

  “Because carpe diem and all that,” Delta says, laughing as she pulls away. She readjusts her tote bag higher on her shoulder, ready for the next leg of her journey. “This is the adventure we were looking for!”

  “Worse case scenario,” Amelia says, “is we meet the men, hate them, and tell Monique we want out. No one is forcing us to get married. We are independent women.”

  I snort. “So independent that we’re twenty-first century mail order brides.”

  Delta smiles, squeezing my shoulders. “I have a connecting flight and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “So we’re really doing this?” I ask them. If anyone is looking for an out, this would be it—the last time all of us will be together for a bit. We’ve all been matched with Alaskan men, but we aren’t going to be living in the same towns.

  “We are doing this. Meaning, tonight you are going to have….” Delta cups her hands around her mouth. “S-E-X.”

  “As are you,” I toss back, not letting the word penetrate. Because the whole sex thing is one of the reasons I considered backing out so often over the last week since we signed our contracts.

  “Oh, hell yeah, I am,” Delta says. “All the sex.”

  “So much sex,” Amelia adds, laughing. “I haven’t been with anyone but Derrick since I turned eighteen.”

  “And now,” I say, shaking my head, “you’ll only have one partner for the rest of your life.”

  This fact does make me feel slightly better about all of this. Being shy makes meeting guys impossible; being someone’s mail order bride takes away all that insecurity. The fact that we’ll be committed by marriage makes me feel safe. If I’m bad in bed, it won’t be easy for him to leave me.

  Hopefully I won’t be as bad as I’ve been imagining.

  And I hope other parts of this insane adventure will make up for the intimidating parts. Like, maybe I’ll finally have inspiration for the novel I’ve always wanted to write. In school I always felt like I didn’t have enough life experience to write a book … but maybe now I can start.

  Maybe I can write all day and have sex all night.

  Okay. So that fantasy might be a little far-fetched, considering the whole sex thing scares the bejesus out of me … but maybe if it’s the right man all my insecurities will vanish and I can be confident like my friends.

  Adjusting my eyeglasses, I look at Delta and Amelia in their heels and perfectly done hair. I didn’t even blow-dry my bob this morning. Exhaling, I remember to ground myself in reality.

  I can’t get carried away. First, I need to meet the guy.

  “We’re getting married. This is bananas,” Amelia squeals. “Derrick can suck it.”

  “I really hope you aren’t just having some overboard rebound reaction,” I say, worried for her.

  She’s all-in with this marriage thing, and I wonder if that’s the healthiest choice for her—for all of us, actually. Marrying out of desperation is probably not the best motivator.

  However, Monique’s clients are millionaires, or more. She only has clients with fortunes, with legit means to care for their wives.

  It could be worse. I could have had to get a roommate on Craigslist and a job at Taco Bell. Maybe this is the way of the future. Maybe my friends and I are actually just the most brilliant young women on the planet, who realize having a loaded husband isn’t the worst thing ever.

  “Okay, I really got to go,” Amelia says.

  “Me, too.” Delta starts to walk away, blowing us kisses dramatically. She turns back, smiling, and calls to me loudly as she walks down the terminal: “And I’m really glad we waxed yesterday, Everly. He’s going to love that you went totally bare down there.”

  My cheeks burn in embarrassment, and I awkwardly adjust my glasses. That is so typical Delta. Of course she’s confident and self-assured—she’s blonde, with long legs and a huge smile. She has nothing to be nervous about when she meets her husband.

  Me, on the other hand? I’m terrified he’ll take one look at my boring clothes and tortoiseshell frames and want to trade me in.

  “You going to be okay, sweetie?” Amelia asks. I nod, wanting so badly not to be the girl who needs the pep talk. I’m usually the one offering that to Amelia, not this role reversal. “Just be yourself,” she says. “It’s what I love about you, your ability to be real. And this guy is going to want to meet the real Everly.”

  “I’ll try.” I smile tightly. “I wish I wasn’t doing this alone.”

  “Honey, call me the first chance you get. We all have our phones. And let me know that you’re okay. Don’t worry, Monique vetted these men. She matched us with them perfectly. And we wanted this. We chose to come. If you really don’t, no one is forcing you to stay.”

  Delta and Amelia have really gone all-in with the concept since the drunken get-go, maybe because marriage doesn’t seem as binding for them as it does me. They’re looking at this entire situation as almost a joke—a free place to live and a way out of dodge. But they’ve never really been around people who were happily married. Delta was raised by her widowed grandpa, and Amelia by her single grandma.

  But my parents were devoted to one another up until they died in a car crash when I was fourteen. And then my grandparents took care of me until they passed away, the same night, in their sleep.

  I know what real love looks like … and maybe I’ve just always been terrified of losing it. Maybe that’s why I’ve always hid behind my shyness. Because what if I lost something I found?

  The thing is, I have nowhere else to go. I don’t even have money to get myself a plane ticket back to Oregon. If I really want to leave, I’ll have to call Monique and tell her I changed my mind before I even tried.

  And the truth is, what do I have to lose?

  I mean, besides my virginity.

  “I got this, Amelia.” I kiss her cheek and wave good-bye, before adjusting the green infinity scarf wrapped around my neck.

  “Love you. We’ll talk soon.”

  As I walk away, I feel a pinprick of tears in the corners of my eyes. Which is beyond annoying. I need to be confident when I meet my stranger. I need him to know I’m not some innocent scaredy-cat.

  Even if that is exactly who I am.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Silas

  Standing in baggage claim is torture. Fuck Monique’s no picture rules. I should have forced her to text me a photo of this girl.

  But Monique is legit. Her website showed happily married couples, and none of those women looked sketchy. The guys? Well, some of them were rough around the edges.

  That was never my problem, finding a woman. All through college, I had plenty of relationships. Well, plenty of sex.

  But after my parents died, I just got over the bullshit of regular life, living in the city, working for the man. If I didn’t have to, why the fuck would I?

  The problem is, after I moved to the backwoods, I realized
women are scarce as fucking shopping malls. This service came at the right time.

  I run a hand through my wavy, dirty-blond hair, realizing it’s longer than I ever used to wear it. And my beard no longer looks like stubble; it’s what some women might call rugged.

  I just think shaving is for motherfucking pussies. I have nothing to prove—not to this woman anyway.

  If she was approved by Monique, at least I know she doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t have any diseases, isn’t on any medication, has a clean police record, and went to college. All I need her for is to cook and clean, and be something warm to hold onto after a long day of hunting and fishing.

  The departures and arrivals screen tells me she’s landed. I’m supposed to look for a woman with a green scarf. I just sure as hell hope there isn’t more than one. Monique suggested I have a driver pick her up and bring her to the hotel, but I wasn’t going to have some hired guy handle my woman.

  I can fucking pick my bride up from the airport.

  But hell, I don’t even know her name—another thing Monique promised wouldn’t help us. Apparently even names can give people ideas in their heads about their new partners.

  Escalators full of people arrive. She’s flying in from Portland, Oregon, but I don’t know if that’s where she’s from. People pass me, and a handful of women pause an extra second, looking me over, taking me in, smiling or biting their lips. Sticking out their tits, wanting me to acknowledge them.

  Damn, I hate girls who flaunt it, who are so fucking needy they need the approval of a stranger.

  I really hope this girl isn’t like that. Well, shit, even if she is, a few months in the cabin with just me and my cock for company, and she’ll change her ways.

  The crowd disperses. People are at the carousel grabbing bags, and no one with a green scarf is anywhere to be seen.

  I rub the back of my neck, realizing for the first time how much I really want this girl to show up, to come home with me. I might say I’ve been okay all alone in the woods, but damn, I guess I’ve been counting on going back to my cabin with someone in my arms.

  Travis is going to give me hell next time he sees me, if I don’t have my mail order bride. Dammit, why’d I tell him about that anyway?

  Then I see someone’s feet glide down the escalator. I watch as the woman comes into view. At first, all I see is a pair of boots to her knees, tight jeans, a plain blue top, and a forest green scarf.

  She’s looking down, so I can’t see her face, and she’s clutching a tote bag like her life depends on it. Her light brown hair is cut above her shoulders, and I can tell she’s small enough to tuck under my arm.

  That’s her. My bride.

  She doesn’t see me. Well, she doesn’t see anything. She’s so focused on the ground that she doesn’t even seem to realize she needs to step off the moving staircase. I can play it out, and know this is going to end badly.

  She stumbles, and I take a few fast strides toward her, not wanting her to fall and hurt herself. I catch her before she face-plants, and in the commotion she drops her tote bag, and her scarf gets tangled in her hands. She tries to stand before she’s found her footing.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I tell her, willing her to look at me.

  She doesn’t. “I’m sorry. I just—I’m an idiot.” She steadies herself, grabs her bag, repositions her scarf, and starts walking away. Not even looking at me.

  I don’t say anything, but I still didn’t get a good look at this girl’s face. Damn. Her body was easy to catch; she was light and warm, and I could fucking get used to holding something like that.

  I watch her eyes dart furtively around the baggage claim, and I know she’s looking for her husband—she just doesn’t know who he is. I’m the one with the clue, not her. In this scenario, Monique told me I’m in the power seat. Knowing she’d be in the green scarf allows me to take her in before I take her home.

  And damn, I want to take this girl home.

  She’s watching the baggage carousel with an intense gaze, and I smile, watching her look for her bag.

  Now I can really see her. She has a slightly upturned nose and soft, full lips. She has on glasses that do nothing to hide her intense green eyes, the same shade as her scarf. And, speaking of that scarf, I’d like to pull it off her—because it’s hiding a pair of perfect tits.

  Damn, they’re full and round, and teasing just about every man that walks past her. She doesn’t even seem to have a clue that she holds an understated beauty that makes every man in this airport give her a once-over.

  Damn, I want to get her out of here so no one else can look at my woman. My cock twitches as I think about what I’m going to give her so she knows she’s mine.

  I watch her walk toward a suitcase, and try to lift it off the carousel. But damn, it’s a beast—half the size of her, and by the way she’s struggling to get it off, I’m betting it weighs more than her, too.

  Once again, I find myself stepping toward her and helping her before she falls. Because, hell, she’s toppling backwards as she tries to lift the black suitcase off the conveyor belt.

  “Girl, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I take the suitcase from her hands and set it down. Holding her at the small of her back, my fingertips graze her waist where her shirt has risen during her second near-fall.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice soft and timid. Shaking her head, she keeps her eyes down. “Look at you, saving me twice.”

  “Oh, I’ll save you as many times as necessary. You’re my bride.”

  “What?” She shakes her head, looking at me, totally confused.

  I raise my head and look around the emptying baggage claim. There’s no other young woman here in a green scarf. This has to be her.

  “I don’t think….” She bites her pink lip, confused.

  Fuck. Did I think the wrong girl is my wife?

  Because that is going to be a motherfucking problem. She’s the girl I want.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Everly

  Oh, no. No. Like, a hundred times, oh my God, is this for reals, no. I need Delta. And Amelia. And all those copies of Cosmo I bought as a teenager, so I can speed-read every advice column about how to act around men.

  Because, hello, I can’t even talk to the male library clerk, who has a honking nose and adult acne. And now this He-man is claiming to be my husband?

  My lifetime sex-buddy, father of my future children, legit husband?

  Oh, God. He is so hot. Like, I don’t know what I expected, but not this. The men on Monique’s site looked regular. Average, healthy—and some were rounder than others, but no one was old or bald or grey.

  But they also weren’t male-model worthy. This man before me—who, um, still has a hand on the small of my back, and I swear his fingertips are electric because every square inch of my flesh is on fire—is easily six foot five, and has the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen, the perfect shaggy hair and beard combo, and eyes so clear it’s like looking at Lake Shasta.

  Before California had a major draught.

  He is a pool of water and I want to drown in him. Or, actually, scratch that, because right now I think I literally am drowning in him. Because I’m mumbling something about being confused and that he has the wrong person—because how the heck did Monique think giving him to me, was a good plan?

  She knows I’m a virgin, that I’m shy and nervous, and I mumble, and I’m basically not the kind of woman this man needs.

  He needs a Delta, a girl who’s confident and tall and dazzling. There must be a mix up. Yes. That’s it. Delta belongs with him and I belong to a boring man in a tweed coat who, like, belongs to a book club. I should be on her connecting flight.

  Not this. Not with a man who looks like he invented Cross-Fit.

  “Are you sure? I mean—” He laughs, low and gravelly and so sexy I think I need to change my underwear, because I can’t even with his voice. “I guess you’d know if you were looking for your husband-to-be … but I hoped you were
my girl.”

  “Hope? Girl? Me?” I am officially a moron. Now is not the time to speak like a robot. I need to speak like human being.

  “Yeah,” he says, shrugging with the kind of confidence you can only possess when you have literally never been told no in your life. “I’m here looking for a woman coming from Portland.” He steps toward me, closing whatever gap there was between us, and I have a freaky desire to smash my entire body against his. Okay, maybe not smash. Crush, maybe?

  Crush sounds more romantic than smash. But hell, right now I am willing to pound or thrust or whatever else would cause his body to press itself on top of mine.

  “Oh. Well.” I swallow, determined that when I next open my mouth I will be speaking in complete sentences. “I think there’s been a mix-up.”

  “No mix up.” He moves his hand from my back, and the moment it’s gone all I want is for it to be back there. Well, also, he could lift the hem of my shirt up a tad bit higher. Or maybe take it completely off.

  Okay, now my overactive imagination is working overtime. See, that’s the problem with only having fantasies about yourself and men. You can imagine it all … it’s just the acting out that tends to be the issue.

  Except his hand really was on my back. This is real. Really real.

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t know if I’m the girl for you. I think there’s been a mix-up.”

  He smiles with his mouth closed, and—I kid you not—he has dimples. Two of them. And I want to lick them. Badly. Which sounds weird, except I’m the one standing across from him, looking at those luscious indentions, and all I want is to put my tongue—

  OMG, I have got to stop. I blink, look up at him and try to breathe.

  “There’s no mix-up. My mail order bride is coming from Portland, wearing a green scarf.” He pulls at the end of the scarf, unwinding it from my neck. “And that’s you.”

  “Oh.” I nod, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “So. You really were coming for me.” Delta was told to wear a pink scarf, and Amelia has on a blue. There is no mix-up. This man is mine.