Sugar Mountain Christmas Bride (The Mountain Men of Linewsworth)
Page 7
Noelle and I exchange a smile as Scout finishes her treat. “Why don’t you get out a glass of milk for Santa, then it’s bedtime for you,” I tell her.
An hour later, Scout is tucked in bed, snoring with a noise machine lulling her to sleep, dreams of sugar plum fairies dancing in her head.
Noelle and I debate whether or not Thomas will stay asleep if we transition him to the crib. We just set it up a week ago and he doesn’t like to be in it for the whole night.
“Let’s try,” she says. “Even if it’s only for a half an hour, it would be enough time.”
I cock an eye at my Christmas bride as I set our son in his bed, turning on the baby monitor. “Enough time for what?”
She pulls me into the bedroom. “Enough time for Santa to eat his cookie.”
I laugh, as she takes off her terry cloth bathrobe. All year she has been incredible, and I fall more in love with her each day. It’s been a year of firsts but there isn’t a person in the world I’d rather get through good and bad times with.
And now she is in the nightie she wore a year ago, the night we first made love. Red with white fur trim, her tits even better than they were. Nursing has its perks. Selfish, sure, but damn, my wife looks hot as hell.
“How did I ever get so lucky?” I ask as she lifts the hem to her nightie, revealing a bare ass and a pretty pink pussy. I drag her to bed, needing her the same way I’ve needed her since the day we met.
Our children are asleep, and so we take the time while we have it. She and I, naked and alone. God, I love her.
She runs her hands over my body, her fingers on my willing shaft. Her kisses sending pleasure up and down my body. “You are the cutest Christmas cookie in the world, you know that, Noelle?”
I ease inside her as her legs wrap around me. She moans in delight as I gently fuck her, soft and tender with her body that has spent so much of the year growing our son, and now, keeping him alive.
“Is that your way of sweet talking me into going down your chimney?” she asks, with a smile as I squeeze her cute little butt.
“I love you, Noelle. And I want to put another baby in you so fucking badly.”
She is the one who brought it up a few days ago, asking what I thought of the idea. Now she knows: I would do anything to give her the life she wants. Her life is mine, her dreams, ours.
“Is it too crazy?” she asks as I move against her perfect body.
“We’re can be crazy together.”
I kiss her, the love we share for one another is in every touch, every word, every moment.
I came to Sugar Mountain without any dream of finding love. But once I arrived in this magical Christmas town, I was changed.
One look at her adorable face, one taste of her perfect sugar cookie, one kiss of her red lips — and I found my Christmas bride.
Now, I’ll never let her go.
Dear Reader,
I hope you have a very merry holiday!
xo, frankie
Preveiw
Mistletoe Mountain
Chapter One
EVIE
Hot pink fleece gloves? Check.
Knee-high, fur lined boots? Check.
Hand knit, mint green, beanie? Check.
With my outfit complete, I step out of my Subaru, crunch across the snow, and open the trunk. Grabbing my loppers and a basket, I begin my trek into the woods.
The weather has been cold all month, but it hasn’t snowed in three days. I should be able to get in and out within an hour, and still be home before lunch. I just need to cut down several cedar branches boughs of holly and get home by dark.
Before locking the car, I pull out my phone and text my sister.
Me: I’m in Northstar Forest. Just in case I get lost.
Willa: What the eff are you doing there?
Me: Best cedar trees around.
Willa: All that effort to make a dozen wreaths? U R Cray Cray.
Me: It’s Christmas. #tradition.
Willa: Tommy is a terror today.
Me: He’s two. Hang in there sista.
Willa: Easier said than done Auntie.
I smile, she’s got a pretty good set-up from my vantage point. A man, a baby, and a house that is a home.
Me: I’ll come babysit.
Willa: Thx, but don’t you have your ugly Xmas sweater thing? Time to get drunk with your fifty closest friends.
I smirk. My sister loves to tease me about my social calendar. But what can I say? I’ve always been the sorta person who loves to stay busy.
Me: I’d cancel all of it to be with Tommy. You know that.
Willa: I know. I’m being a brat. Can’t help but be a teensy bit jealous of your life is all.
Me: I love you, sister. Nothing to be jelly of.
Willa: xoxo. Stay safe.
I pocket my phone and put on my gloves. Even though I told Willa that she has nothing to be jealous of... I know it’s not the truth.
There are a ton of things I love about my life. My home business has totally taken off. I have an adorable little one-bedroom house on the cutest street in town.
There’s always someone to hang out with -- I went to college here and have made a ton of connections in the four years since I graduated. I attend a book club and a knitting group -- weekly events where my girlfriends and I get drunk on boxed wine.
And I always have plans on Friday nights. And Saturday nights. The girls and I go out dancing, meet guys, and enjoying everything the city offers.
I figure living life in the fast lane won’t last forever… but so long as it does, I’m all in.
Body shots in Mexico instead of Valentine’s day at home? Check.
Renting a party bus for my friends’ birthdays? Check.
Hosting bridal showers and baby showers when said friends get hitched and knocked-up? Check.
I look out at the snow-covered mountain. Everything is so quiet. Still.
For a moment, I can’t help but wish my life were more like this. Like my sister’s, even.
Sure, Willa would love to have more girls’ nights out, but she has Tommy and Ethan. She has everything.
And I tell myself I have everything I need too.
Even if the truth is I’ll be alone on Christmas morning.
Which is why I am determined to deliver these handmade wreaths to my neighbors. I won’t feel the pang of loneliness quite so sharply if I’m walking around my neighborhood.
I start hiking into the trees, wanting to find the perfect branches to make wreaths. This has become my annual tradition—and on Christmas morning I deliver them to all my neighbors.
As I step over a fallen branch and inhale the pine and cedar scent, the air crisp and cold, I smile, watching tiny snowflakes cover my coat.
I start looking for usable branches to cut. Oddly, though, the good ones are all fairly high, out of my reach. Instead of attempting an impossible climb, I keep walking knowing that eventually, I’ll find what I’m looking for.
My mind’s on the blog post I’m planning to write this afternoon -- after all the cedar is laid out on my workbench to dry. I’ll photograph each step in the wreath making process, and use them in a how-to post.
My readers love those the most. Helpful, affordable -- and always cute. That’s the motto on my website, EASIER WITH EVIE.
As I am thinking through the steps to make the wreaths, I realize: 1) I’ve walked quite a way from the car and 2) the snow is coming down awfully thick.
Like too thick.
Like, it’s basically a blizzard.
Dangit.
I pull out my phone -- why I don’t know. Probably because I’m tethered to this thing 24/7 and I’m hoping Siri can tell me that the weather is going to clear up in the next three to five minutes or something.
She doesn’t tell me anything.
NO SIGNAL.
Fantastic.
Pursing my lips in concentration, I try to retrace my steps. But the snow is coming down so heavily that I can’t
even see where I came from. And it’s getting cold. I can’t feel my toe, it’s so cold.
And I’m walking in circles trying to find my way but only getting more turned around.
Frick.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not one to panic. While I maybe not be exactly conventional in my methods, I have a system for everything. I’m prepared and organized and do things in order. Evie order.
Step 1: Get the hell out of the forest
Step 2: Find some whiskey and warm up
Step 3: Go to the hardware store and buy some freaking pre-made wreaths.
Lost in a snowstorm wasn’t the plan. Making wreaths to put a smile on my neighbor’s faces shouldn’t be this complicated.
I want to be a strong, independent woman, and for the most part -- I am.
But right now, I need help.
I feel my eyes prick with tears, and suddenly I feel alone. And scared.
And that is pretty much the last way anyone should feel two days before Christmas.
CHAPTER TWO
Everett
Sitting in my cabin is usually my favorite fucking place to be.
This year, though, it’s different.
Maybe I’m restless, just needing some sort of change of scenery. Not that I’d ever leave my place in the woods -- hell no, but sometimes it feels like I am missing something.
Missing someone.
I run my fingers over the worn photograph of my family. My parents and sister. They died when I was twenty-two, in a car accident -- coming to visit me in the city. Fucking sad as hell, a tragedy without any silver lining. They were the salt of the earth people, true grit -- good as gold. Taken way too damn soon.
It put life into fucking perspective. I got rid of the three-piece suits and silver cufflinks I wore for my stupid-ass job where I clocked in for the man, and started reading about living a slower life. One where I’m wasn’t chasing the next weekend high of parties and friends and women.
So, I built a cabin. Planted a garden. Fucking canned tomatoes and got a goat, some chickens, and a few pigs. I was all in. That’s how I’ve always been with everything.
And I documented it all. One entry a day, and three hundred and sixty-five days later I had a book. And then another. So far I’ve published five. Day in the Life of an American Mountain Man.
The lifestyle is great in the spring, planning and planting a garden. The summer is tending crops and chopping wood. The fall is nice, harvesting and canning.
But then winter comes.
And it’s lonely as fuck.
And long.
Really fucking long.
I put down the photograph and open and close the cupboard doors. There are no Christmas cookies or toffee. My mom always made that stuff. I have her old recipe book, but every time I think about making a dozen cookies to eat alone I get sad as fuck.
Now look, I’m not some depressed dude in the woods -- I love this life, I honestly do.
But Christmas makes me sentimental. Makes me think about years past when there were lights on a tree and stockings hung and presents wrapped.
Not one to sit and wallow, I grab my coat and pull on my boots. I may be alone, but I can still make it a memorable Christmas.
Stepping outside, I grab a saw, holler for my chocolate lab, Johnny Walker, and shut the door.
The snow has gotten worse over the past few hours, and I’m surprised at how heavy it’s falling. The sky is still bright, and the freshly fallen snow shines. My feet sink in the inches that have already accumulated, and I head toward the edge of my property. The Northstar Forest surrounds my homestead.
I’m trying to think of any good Christmas-sized trees I may have seen, and Johnny Walker runs ahead, yapping at something he must see or smell. Can’t imagine too many forest animals would be out right now in this weather. Seems like I’m the only beast crazy enough to come out today.
I follow the old boy, knowing he must be on to something. I cut across the snow-covered garden, beyond the livestock barn that houses the animals for the winter. We cross into the forest, and immediately things are darker, hushed. The sky is covered by the tree branches laden with snow.
It’s gorgeous out here, beyond the cleared space of my cabin. The nearest city is over an hour away, in this forest, there is nothing to distract you, nothing to do but clear your mind. It’s calm and peaceful.
Except that today there is a cry for help.
Johnny’s off like a shot and I follow close behind, my ax still firmly gripped in my hand.
And there she is. A woman with bright blonde hair and eyes frozen with worry. A woman beneath a tree, shaking, arms crossed.
Lost and alone.
“Hey, there,” I call out, running as quickly as I can through the snow.
Her eyes meet mine, relief flooding her face as a flurry of snow whips between us.
Johnny is barking, jumping between us.
“You did good, Johnny,” I tell him, patting his head as I come up to the woman who looks frightened.
She’s standing under a pine tree, and I smile, seeing the bough growing from a branch above her head.
“Mistletoe,” I tell her, pointing.
She looks slightly stunned. “Where did you come from, wielding a saw like you know what to do with it?” Her voice is textured, both light and low at the same time.
“Over yonder,” I tell her, jutting my chin to the east.
“Yonder?” Her question is more of a laugh. Her laugh is more of a song.
I nod, and then swing my ax over my shoulder, eyeing her loppers, not quite figuring her out. “And where did you come from?”
“Over the river and through the woods.”
I smile, liking how easily her words slide off her tongue. I also liked the way her reddened cheeks rounded as she smiled. Liking the way her lips part as she speaks.
“There are no grandmas at my house, but I do have a fireplace. And I think you could use some warming up.”
“My car’s out on the main road.”
“Honey,” I tell her, a flurry of snow nearly blinding our vision. “You aren’t getting out of here in a car tonight. Besides, you’re three miles from the main road, you know that, right?”
She covers her face, clearly lost. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Nah, at least you’re prepared. You got loppers to cut off the head of anything that got too close.”
She lowers her head, smiling. “You have anything stronger than a fire at your place?” Her words surprise me; I had supposed something as sweet-looking as her would want sugar and spice and everything nice.
“I got Fireball whiskey.”
“Perfect.” She leans down and pats Johnny as if instantly relaxed with this plan in place.
“But on our way,” I tell her, “We need to chop down a Christmas tree.”
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About the Author
Frankie Love writes filthy-sweet stories about bad boys and mountain men.
As a thirty-something mom who is ridiculously in love with her own bearded hottie, she believes in love-at-first-sight and happily-ever-afters.
She also believes in the power of a quickie.
Find Frankie here:
www.frankielove.net
frankieloveromance@gmail.com