Mountain Manhattan_Mountain Man in the Big City
Page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Synopsis
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Sneak Peek
Mountain Manchester
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
Mountain Manhattan
Mountain Man in the Big City
Frankie Love
Synopsis
❤THE HIGHLY ANTICIPATED, FULL-LENGTH, FRANKIE LOVE ROMANCE❤
I work with my hands in the Colorado Rockies, forging metal into massive sculptures. I’m no Renaissance man— all I need is: fresh air, solitude, and an honest day’s work.
When I’m commissioned to install a piece of art in Central Park, I know the gig is too good to pass up. But the moment I arrive in Manhattan and see the hustle and bustle mixed with noise and skyscrapers, I long for my cabin back on the mountain.
Then I meet Mia and the Big Apple changes before my very eyes. This city girl is working the front desk of the Mid-Manhattan Hotel and I can’t help but enjoy the view. Dark hair, a laugh that fills the room, and curves that wind their way straight to my heart.
What starts as a whirlwind romance, quickly grinds to a halt though. Mia’s life is complicated. And I don’t do complicated.
I could survive being lost in the wilderness for a long-ass time. But right now, I’m trying to find my way out of this concrete jungle.
Mia just might be the path that leads me home.
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.
Contents
Synopsis
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Sneak Peek
Mountain Manchester
Also by Frankie Love
About the Author
1
Ford
This city is bullshit. Yellow taxis sit like ducks in a row and I’m tired of biding my time in this muggy backseat. I either need to be the driver behind the wheel or walking on my own two feet. I’m over this. Handing the driver a twenty, I step out of the cab. Grabbing my rucksack, I sling it over my shoulder and look up at the sky.
There are hints of blue between the massive skyscrapers, reaching the heights of a mountain, but not coming anywhere close to the majesty. Hell no, this place is a concrete jungle and I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be.
Horns honk at me, drivers yelling for me to move, but no one is gonna tell me what to do.
Looking down at the map in my hand, I head down the block, take a left, then a right, side-stepping pigeon poop and the rancid remains of overflowing trash cans. Besides the litter, car exhaust mixes with the pungent smell of urine, reminding me I’m really fucking far from home.
After a few turns, I find myself in front of what is to be my lodging for the next six weeks. I told the mayor to give me a room at a small hotel. I may have agreed to come to this city for the job he commissioned me for, but I’m sure as hell not going to support a corporate chain.
As I stop in front of The Mid-Manhattan Hotel, a young man on his phone yells at me to move because stopping on the sidewalk is apparently against the law. I just stare back at him. I’ve seen scarier chipmunks. He swallows hard, dips his head, and walks around me.
I shake my head at all the jackasses in a hurry around me. Guys like them are missing the point of everything. If you can’t slow down and look someone in the eye when you speak to them, you have your priorities all screwed up.
Ignoring the women giving me a second look and catcalling me like I’m a hooker––“Hey baby, I know where you could put that beard.” ––I take in the view.
The hotel is tucked between two massive buildings and it looks like it was carved from a fairy tale. Gingerbread trim and flower baskets, not to mention, it’s set back from the road with a small courtyard in front that has a tiny patch of green grass; the first I’ve seen in the city.
I find that my frown, the one that’s been splayed across my face since I landed at JFK, is diminishing. The mayor may have done all right when he set me up here. Pushing past the wrought iron gate, I open the front door. It’s mid-morning, but the lobby is full of people. There’s a couple having coffee, a few young children darting between the legs of their parents and a group of women wearing lanyards identifying themselves as attendees of a business conference.
“Can I help you?” a young woman standing behind the reception desk asks, reaching for a pencil in the bun atop her head. It’s hard to answer the question though, because hell, if I thought this hotel was carved from a fucking fairy tale, then she stepped straight out of it.
She has curves, dark hair, and big green eyes. Snow White has nothing on her; they may both have lips painted red, but this woman’s smile is something no one’s ever written about. Her face is bright as if she believes in happily-ever-after.
I run my hand over my beard as she considers me, probably thinking I don’t know how to talk. Damn straight, she just stole my power of speech.
Stepping closer to her at the front desk, I finally manage to raise an eyebrow and speak. “I’d like to check in
.” I pull out my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans.
She licks her lips. Hell, she shouldn’t do things like that in public. It makes me want to do something to her, in private. I look around, collecting myself, trying to adapt to this hotel, feeling like it’s some portal in the Upper East Side to a time and place that still knows what it means to slow down and smell the fucking roses.
The wax polish on the floor reminds me of my grandmother’s house and the fresh cut flowers take me home. Nothing like what lies outside the doors of this hotel.
Maybe this gig isn’t going to be so bad. Especially if this woman works here. She’s beautiful. Her black hair falls over her shoulders, now free from the pencil bun, and it frames her face in a natural, unpretentious way. Her cheeks are rosy, but it’s her eyes that have me spellbound. They’re deep green like a pine tree and cloaked with long lashes. Like the boughs of a branch, they draw me to her, taking me back to my mountain in the Colorado Rockies with every glance.
She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s got me hook, line, and sinker.
“Well, let me be the first to welcome you,” she says warmly. “What’s your name?” Her fingers begin clicking on a keyboard and the noise brings me back to reality.
“Ford. Ford Thatcher.”
“Let’s see here.” She taps on the keys some more, then tilts her head to the side, ever so slightly, and looks from the screen to me with interest. “Ford Thatcher? You’re the guy who saved the mayor’s son?”
I nod, jaw clenching. I don’t want any attention for saving that teenager’s life, even though I know I’d never be here right now, standing before this woman, if I hadn’t. She may be trying to look proper in her smart black dress and string of pearls, but her messy hair tells me this outfit she has on is just a uniform. And when she leans over the counter, the strap of her leopard-print bra peeks out, and I know she isn’t a white cotton panties kind of girl. She’s more than meets the eye.
Which is saying something, because those eyes promise a hell of a lot.
“Well, on behalf of The Mid-Manhattan Hotel, thank you for what you did. When the mayor’s secretary called and booked your room, we felt honored to host such a VIP guest during your extended stay in the city. How exciting it must be to install a piece of art in Central Park.”
I hate this sort of thing. Attention.
It reminds me of what I didn’t do.
What I should have done.
The biggest regret and saddest day of my life, all mixed into one.
Talk about fucking baggage.
Shrugging, I notice her name tag. “Well, anyway, thanks, Mia. But really, it was nothing.”
“Nothing?” She shakes her head, irritated. “You saved Luke Gustavo’s life. That’s not nothing. Especially not to his family.”
She’s hit a nerve close to home. God knows I understand the difference between life and death.
I raise my hands in defeat. “I’m just glad I was there and could help.”
“Oh, so you’re the modest type? That’s refreshing.” She laughs to herself. “I’m betting you haven’t spent much time in the city?”
I shake my head. “Hell, no. I’ve only been here an hour and traffic was a bitch, not to mention the trash on the street, the noise coming from every which way. It’s a clusterfuck out there, don’t understand how anyone can put up with it.”
She smiles, taking in my soliloquy, and teases, “Careful there, Mr. Thatcher. People might mistake you for a grumpy old man.”
I smirk. “Is there a problem with that?”
She laughs. “Well considering you’re what, thirty years old, I’m guessing it’s not the reputation you want.”
“I don’t give a damn about reputations.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, I see. You’re one of those guys.”
I scoff. “One of which guys?”
She rolls her eyes. “A caveman.”
I grin. “No, Mia. I’m not a caveman. I’m a mountain man, and it’s time you learned the difference.”
2
Ford
Her response surprises me. Calling me a caveman. Hell, I may be from a small town, but I’ve never met a woman who didn’t find me irresistible. Most women like tall, dark, no bullshit men. I pretty much fit their don’t-take-him-home-to-meet-your-daddy label.
Rough, rugged, and unrestrained is how I roll. Now, more than ever. God knows the last few years have changed me. Maybe I used to be the sort of man who was soft around the edges, but that part of me died. Buried along with everything else that mattered.
“For starters, I sleep in a cabin, not a cave. And I swing an ax, not a club,” I tell her, playing along. I look her up and down again, unable to help myself. Already setting my sights on what I want. It’s strange, warming to her so damn fast. But one look at her, and I find myself easing up and being friendlier. “But there’s a lot I don’t know about this city. Maybe you could show me around. You know, show me some sights?”
She laughs at that. “You’re trouble, Ford Thatcher.”
“Look,” I say, keeping my tone light, “I’d be fine just staying put in this hotel. I’m sure you could show me around my room and get me acquainted with the amenities.” I’m flirting, but she’s not paying me any mind; she’s gone over to the printer to grab paperwork. Her ass is nice and round and damn, it makes me think about the dirty things I could do to her.
Still, she hasn’t even looked over her shoulder. Hell, maybe I’m losing my game. God knows I have reason to be a little rusty. It’s been a long ass time since I took a woman home with me.
I look around the lobby again, taking note of the lush green ferns and the worn velvet sofas that look like they came with the place. It’s a place where I could put my feet up.
“Okay, Mr. Thatcher,” she says, remaining all business. “Let me get you your room key and then you can be on your way.”
I ignore her comment, wanting to keep the conversation going. “This hotel doesn’t seem to match the city at all.”
“It’s a good place.” She bites her bottom lip, looking around wistfully. “But you’ll actually be one of our very last guests. I found out last week that we’re closing our doors in two months.”
“Really?” I scoff. “That’s a shame. This hotel is the only thing I’ve seen that reminds me of home, even a little.” But as I say it, I know it’s not true. Mia’s eyes feel like home, too.
“Where’s home for you?” She prints off a room key and tucks the card in an envelope.
“I was born and raised in the Colorado Rockies. I think while I’m in town, I’ll work on my sculpture all day, then come back and relax here at night. I have no interest in the rest of this city.”
She clucks her tongue at me, as if not believing my words. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re going to stay in the city and not even try to experience it? That’s crazy. We’re in the greatest place on Earth. Manhattan.”
I laugh. “Maybe, but no way is there anything outside those doors that’s better than me sitting on one of those couches at the end of the day, stretching out my legs, whiskey in my hand.”
She shakes her head at me. “I’d kill to have more time to go out and see the city. I’m working so much lately that I’ve been slacking in my duties––as the concierge, it’s my job to know all the best spots and the truth is, I haven’t been out in ages.”
I take a harder look at her; under her warm smile and seemingly easy-going nature, I see the dark circles under her eyes, the extra-large cup of coffee next to her keyboard, and the Post-it notes on nearly every surface of the desk.
“I think you’re working too hard,” I tell her. “Maybe you should take a night off.”
She laughs under her breath. “I wish.” She walks to a closet behind the desk and pulls out a garment bag and hands it to me. “This came for you earlier.” I take it from her, guessing it’s the tux for tonight. I had to order it because I sure as hell don’t own a tuxedo.
Maybe it’s the way she looks defeated at this moment, and I don’t know this woman enough to know if her guard is always up or if it’s just me, but I know I want to make her smile again.
“Come out with me tonight.”
She raises a brow. “You’re crazy.”
“No, I want you to be my date. I have this gala, in my honor. It’s bullshit, but I’ve gotta go, and the last thing I wanna do is make small talk with people I’ll never see again. But you, Mia, are easy to talk to. Be my date.”
“Easy to talk to or easy to flirt with?”
“Yes,” I say with a big grin.
An older gentleman walks behind the desk where she’s standing, giving me a harder look than I deserve.
“Are you a guest?” he asks me.
“Ford Thatcher,” I tell him, nodding, arms crossed. “Just checking in.”
“Oh,” the man says, knowingly, and his narrowed eyes are quickly replaced with a friendly smile. “Welcome. I’m the owner, Hugh Roller, and we are so pleased to have such a VIP guest with us. If there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, don’t hesitate.” He smiles genially at me and I can’t help but wonder what caused this man to sell this place.