Beauty and the Mountain Man Read online

  My flight has been canceled.

  Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

  Stepping forward I look at the woman behind the counter, smiling tightly, in an effort to not completely lose my shit.

  “It’s not delayed?” I ask, knowing how important this Christmas is at my dad’s house. I should have flipped my a-hole boss the middle finger and not gone to work today. I’m a receptionist at a PR company, which sucks considering I have a PR degree that is doing literally nothing for me.

  Whether or not I show up for work is not life or death, especially when a promotion doesn’t exactly seem to be on my horizon.

  But showing up at my dad’s tonight is really important.

  “Are you sure it’s canceled-canceled?”

  She smiles smugly as if she not-so-secretly thinks I’m an idiot. “The flight has been canceled. Which is why it says canceled.”

  I tuck a loose strand of my brown hair behind my ears, mustering all my strength -- so I don’t lose my cool with on this woman who has probably had a rougher day than I have --and ask, “Is there another flight I can take? It’s Christmas Eve. I need to get home.”

  The woman’s eyes narrow. “Yes. I know it’s Christmas Eve. I know that because I am the one working right now, darling; you are not.”

  I widen my eyes in surprise. “Okay,” I say, raising my hands in defeat and look her in the eye. “I get it. You’re the one working on a holiday. I’m sure you have places you want to be, too. I’m really sorry. “

  The woman exhales as if no one has acknowledged her all day. She moves her fingers quickly across the keyboard and then surprises me.

  “The best I can do is get you on standby for another flight leaving in thirty minutes, it has a layover, but you’ll get to Phoenix before tomorrow. After that, the next flight doesn’t leave for three hours.”

  “Three hours?” I shake my head. That means I wouldn’t get to my dad’s place until late into the night. “Thank you,” I tell her, knowing I could’ve been nicer from the get-go. “And Merry Christmas.”

  I toss my empty latte in the trash and resolve to be a little bit nicer during whatever is left of this holiday.

  And then I run to security.

  Chapter 2

  Bradley

  What a fucking zoo.

  Standing at the gate, I run my hands over my beard, really wishing I had just told my mom that coming to her place for the holidays was too much.

  The grand opening for my bar is New Year’s Eve and I have a shit-ton of work to do before then, but she insisted I could come for a day and be back in twenty-four hours.

  She doesn’t realize I’m working twenty-four-seven to get this place off the ground. Sure, I can handle the interior, getting the place to look the right kind of lumberjack-cool to appeal to Seattle hipsters -- the issue is promoting the opening.

  It would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d forked over the cash to that PR firm months ago.

  Of course, I thought I could do it all. Turns out, opening a bar and getting the buzz out about it are two very different beasts.

  I just gotta get to my mom’s place. I may be a man, but I have a soft spot for my mother, especially on Christmas morning. She loves the holiday, and my brother is coming with his girlfriend, so I’d be an ass not to show.

  But with the last flight canceled, and everyone at this gate hoping for standby, I know I am going to have to work my charm if I want that ticket.

  I look at the flight attendant, her knee-length black skirt, the run in her pantyhose, her frazzled hair -- clearly she’s as done with this place as I am.

  I sidle up to her and smile. “Hey, Santa’s Helper, any word on the standby?”

  She raises an eyebrow and laughs. “You think you can sweet talk your way onto this flight?”

  “I thought I’d try, and it looks like you could use some holiday cheer.” I hand her a miniature candy cane that a bell ringer gave me when I dropped a twenty in his bucket on my way to the gate. My eyes graze her, and I can’t help but think about her licking my candy cane.

  She must like my eyes on her because she takes the peppermint stick and says, “I think we’ve got one ticket left, you ready to fight for it?”

  Before I can answer, a tiny mouse of a girl with long hair, big brown eyes and an upturned nose appears. She’s swinging her arms, trying to get the attention of the attendant I’m speaking with.

  “I’ll fight for it,” she says, apparently overhearing my conversation. “I need to get on the plane.”

  A voice over a loudspeaker calls. “Final boarding for flight 1932 to Phoenix boarding now. All passengers on standby please wait as we finish filling the plane.”

  The mousy girl and I lock eyes. Her pink-lipped mouth is set in a firm line. She means business.

  “You said there’s one seat left?” I ask.

  The frazzled-hair woman nods. “Think so. I’m gonna go check.” She smiles, raising her shoulders slightly. “I’ll let you know.”

  I turn to the girl. “I need the ticket.”

  She smirks. “Me too.”

  “I know you are probably thinking I’ll just hand it over, to be a gentleman and all, but it’s Christmas and I need to get home.”

  She nods, her lips pursed. “Well, like the lady said, you’ll have to fight me for it.” She drops her tote bag and raises her fists, moving her right foot back in a fighting stance. “Come on Mr. Bah-Humbug, let’s do this.” Her eyebrows raise and I know she is playing with me, but this day has been way too long.

  “So you’re a southpaw?” I ask, crossing my arms, assessing her.

  “That’s it?” she asks, fake jabbing me. “I need that ticket. My dad is counting on me. He told me he hung up a stocking and everything. He’s baking a ham. I can’t let him down.”

  “You should have gotten here earlier, Rhonda Rousey.”

  She drops her arms and picks up her bag. “Let me have the ticket.”

  “No way,” I tell her. “You may be ready for a fight, but that flight attendant has a sweet spot for me.”

  The girl rolls her eyes. “Oh, give me a break. Let me guess, you gave the poor woman who’s been on her feet for twelve hours some pickup line about sitting on your figurative Santa’s lap.”

  I smile. “Listen, I gotta do what I gotta do. If she wants to suck my candy cane, I’ll let her. It’s not personal. It’s Christmas.”

  She looks at me with disgust, and I’ll admit, maybe I went a tad overboard with that comment, but this girl is unnerving as fuck.

  “Right. Which is why I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do.” She grins, and starts hollering, “This man is harassing me!”

  My mouth drops, she is playing dirty. “Stop it,” I tell her. “That’s so not cool.”

  She stops yelling, as people stare at me uncertain of how to respond to her claim.

  She crosses her arms. “I’m not standing around waiting. I’m getting that ticket.” She moves past me toward the ticket counter. “Excuse me?” she asks the attendant I was flirting with. “Is there a standby seat left? My dad’s dying in the hospital as we speak.”

  Her eyes go wide, “Oh sweetie, let me check.” And she rapidly begins typing on a keyboard. “Yes, yes, we do. We have one seat left.”

  “You told me he was baking a ham.”

  She instantly gets red in the face. “Well, I mean. Figuratively.”

  But the attendant isn’t having any of it. “You’re lying about your father?”

  “Umm. Sorta. But he,” she says pointing her finger at me, “told me he planned on having you lick his candy cane during the flight.”

  Holy shit, this girl is fighter, a liar, and knows how to play dirty.

  Now it’s my turn to get red-faced and backpedal. “I didn’t say that. Exactly.”

  The mouse-girl responds, but I can’t even hear her, because the attendant is scowling, clearly disgusted with our antics, and is asking a man behind us to come forward.

  Then she gives him the last
standby ticket.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I say to no one and anyone willing to listen, but the only person to hear me is the girl with a smart mouth. Everyone else has either boarded the plane or cleared out of the gate.

  “Fuck me now,” mousey girl says, huffing as she pulls her rolling suitcase, glaring at me the whole time, before leaving the gate.

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” I think, before making a beeline to the bar with three hours to kill.

  Chapter 3

  CeeCee

  During my three hours of sitting around the Seattle airport, I manage to update my LinkedIn account – mostly because I need a new job ASAP. I can’t answer phones forever when what I really want to be doing is helping people promote their businesses.

  After that, I sit in an airport bar nursing a Chardonnay and reading a Christmas romance on my Kindle. It may not be the most glamorous way to spend Christmas Eve, but at least I’ve had a little fun getting tipsy and fantasizing about a mountain man who is unable to keep his hands off of me.

  Eventually, I slide off the barstool and head towards the gate. It’s a relief to find that the earlier hustle and bustle at the airport has dissipated. At this point, everyone left is just tired.

  No one is fighting -- not even the sexy guy who was an asshole about the standby seat earlier. We all just get in line to board the plane while staring at our smartphones, jealous of the Facebook feeds that mention marshmallows and hot cocoa and cute kids in matching Christmas pajamas.

  Maybe next Christmas will be different. Maybe next Christmas I’ll have someone who cares about me, who wants to share a life with me. Maybe next Christmas I will have a life that I am excited about.

  This is not how I expected my life to be just a few years out of college.

  After boarding the plane, I stow my carry-on overhead and find my seat by the window. Before tucking my purse at my feet, I pull out my Kindle once again and begin where I left off.

  Snowflakes. Kissing. Mistletoe.

  Sigh.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I look up and see the sexy-yet-argumentative-man from earlier looking at his boarding pass and then the seat numbers. Then he shakes his head and sits down in the aisle seat, leaving one seat between us.

  Of course, that’s my luck.

  I smile -- very tightly -- and look back at my screen. Determined not to say anything to this guy.

  Yes, he may have a beard that reminds me of the mountain man I’m reading about, and he is wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing scrolling tattoos across his forearms. Which do turn me on; and yes, does make me all fluttery in my belly. Against all better judgment, I have the urge to press my face against his chest and inhale. Wanting to know if he smells like fresh air and pine trees and firewood.

  Which is ridiculous.

  He is not a mountain man carrying an axe that I’m reading about. He’s just a guy, carrying a grudge.

  Against me.

  He must have the same ignore-me idea because he doesn’t even give me a second glance. He sits down, pulls out a paperback novel. A classic.

  He’s reading A Christmas Carol.

  Which, okay. That’s pretty damn sexy to be reading that on Christmas Eve.

  But he is not sexy. He wanted some flight attendant to suck his candy cane.

  His words, not mine.

  Just when I think the plane has finished boarding, a mom and her screaming kids walk on.

  “Sorry. Timmy, get back here. Walk, please. No running.” The woman shakes her head, carrying an infant in her arms and has a five-year-old barreling down the aisle.

  I feel bad for her and am reminded that I am pretty much the ultimate self-centered bitch.

  All day I’ve been thinking about myself and how hard it is to be traveling on Christmas Eve. And here’s this woman with her two kids, all alone.

  The mystery lumberjack must have the same thoughts because our eyes meet and we exchange soft smiles, as if both realizing we have nothing to complain about.

  The woman shakes her head, looking at the empty seat, as she catches up with Timmy.

  “Excuse me,” the woman grimaces. “Is there any way you could scoot over so my son could sit on the aisle? I’m just gonna be right here on the other side. He’s never flown before.”

  “Of course, no worries.” The man picks up his backpack and moves it under the seat next to mine. He smiles at the woman, who looks slightly relieved and who is now helping her son get buckled up before finding her own seat.

  A while later, the plane is in the air, and my elbow keeps knocking against the guy’s.

  “Fuck. Sorry,” I tell him. “It’s just tight quarters.”

  “Still wanting to fight, is that it?” He’s joking though, because a smile spreads across his face and he earmarks his page in the book before looking at me.

  “I’m done fighting.” I exhale, shaking my head, running my hands through my hair. “It’s just been a long day. I get that I was pretty fucking nasty back there.”

  “Me too. It’s Christmas, right? And fuck, the last thing anyone needs is bickering on what should be the happiest days of the year.”

  “I know. I was being ridiculous,” I admit. “I was all, this day is the fucking worst! And then I realized it’s not actually true. I sat in a warm airport, drinking cold wine, and reading a book. Definitely first world problems.”

  “Fuck yeah.” He shakes his head. “In the grand scheme of things, not much to bitch about.”

  The woman with the baby and child leans over and glowers at us. Her friendly demeanor from earlier is gone. “Language, there are children present.”

  The mystery guy and I both raise eyebrows, nervously apologizing.

  “Guess my language isn’t PG,” he says.

  “Mine either, I swear, I say fuck every other – –” The woman, with one eyebrow raised, catches my eye. “Sorry,” I say biting my bottom lip, trying to fight a laugh. “That was so inappropriate,” I tell him.

  “I think we need a code word for the F-word.”

  “Agreed. Something cheerful. “

  “Not candy cane,” he says, which gets a laugh out of me.

  “And not Santa’s lap.”

  “How about Merry Christmas?” He shrugs. “That work?”

  “Merry Christmas is perfect.”

  “Well then, Merry Christmas, this day has been long. We need a drink.”

  “Merry Christmas, I know,” I moan. “I nearly quit my job, got locked out of my place, and missed a flight.”

  “And I’m opening a bar in a week and haven’t sold more than two dozen tickets to the grand opening New Year’s Eve party. Merry Christmas.”

  We talk about his bar and my PR degree. I immediately have about a hundred ideas for his launch, but try to not overwhelm him. Soon enough we’re chatting about our lives in Seattle, and find out we only live a few blocks away from one another.

  I can’t help but think that the more he talks, the cuter he is. He has dimples in his right cheek, bright blue eyes -- eyes that keep lingering at the V-neck of the shirt I’m wearing. At one point our hands brush against one another, and we both laugh nervously.

  “What are you reading?” he asks.

  I explain the mountain man romance novel, and he smiles, not judging, which is a surprise.

  “So you like those rough and rugged types of men?” he asks.

  I bite back a smile. “Yeah, I mean, I like the idea of a man who knows who he is and what he wants. No apologies. He meets the woman he wants and doesn’t hold back.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Girl,” he says. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

  I laugh. “No one ever says that to me.”

  “You fight, you know what you want -- it’s sexy as fu… as Merry Christmas.”

  I feel heat rising in my cheeks.

  “It makes me wanna go build a cabin in the woods if you’ll come with me.”

  I la
ugh. “You are so full of it.”

  Guys never hit on me like this. Not to say I don’t date or hook-up with men I meet….

  But a man who flirts so openly, with so much sex appeal? It’s a first.

  “Not full of it,” he says. “I mean it. I’d build that log house with my own two hands.”

  I can’t help but laugh, but honestly, my whole body is tingling with the pleasure of his compliments.

  When the drink cart arrives, we both order shots of whiskey.

  “I’d toast to us,” I say. “But I don’t even know your name.”

  “Bradley. And yours?”

  “I’m CeeCee.” I lift my plastic glass. “To less Merry Christmas-ed up days in the future.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 4

  Bradley

  It’s a quick flight to Phoenix, and by the time we start our descent I’ve decided that there is more to CeeCee than I realized at first glance.

  When we first met, her fists were raised, her voice loud, and she was bigger than her petite frame would have led me to believe.

  And then I got to know her.

  For two hours, the two of us bullshit, talk about music and shows we’ve recently seen. Both of us seeming to prefer books to TV show marathons on Netflix.

  I tell her about my bar, how I don’t know how to get people to show up for the grand opening. She has all kinds of suggestions and looks shocked when I tell her I don’t even have a Facebook page set up yet. I appreciate her input. In fact, I tell her I should hire her.

  “I don’t know,” she says nervously. “I mean I’d love to take on something like that, but I don’t know if I have enough experience. I’ve been manning the front desk for the last two years, I don’t know if I want to get my feet wet with something so high-stakes as your livelihood.”

  “I bet you know more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

  She just smiles and takes another sip of her whiskey.

  “You’ll have to come to my bar when it opens.” The plane has landed and we’re grabbing our luggage from the overhead compartments.