Mountain Man Bun

by Frankie Love

  She covers her mouth, and the woman beside her smacks her on the shoulder.

  “Greta, you’re so bad,” she cries, shaking her head.

  Greta rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re the one telling me to have a little fun.”

  “I was telling you to take a chance. There’s a difference.”

  “And who are you?” I ask.

  “Maggie, Greta’s sister.” She sticks out her hand and we shake. “She’s staying with me this week while she is here on vacation.” Maggie is bubbly and alive—in a different way than Greta. Greta appears more cool, collected—comfortable in her skin.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Now, would you let your sister off the hook while I buy her a drink?”

  Maggie scrunches up her face. “I don’t know … we know nothing about you except that you have a man bun. Which is a questionable choice, as far as I’m concerned.”

  I run a hand over my beard, knowing this bun is getting too much attention and not wanting to give it anymore by defending myself. Instead, I go in for the kill.

  “I’m a good guy—single, employed, and here for vacation. I’m just asking for drink, nothing more.”

  Greta bites back a smile. “Nothing more?”

  “Greta!” Mags smacks her sister again, but Greta is already pulling a purse onto her shoulder and reaching behind her chair for her coat. “Hey,” Mags cries playfully. “We don’t even know this man’s last name.”

  “His first name’s Ansel, that’s cute enough for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mags, okay? Don’t wait up.” Greta leans over and kisses her sister on the cheek and I raise my eyebrows, liking this woman who isn’t beating around the bush.

  With my hand on her back, I lead her to the bar where Torin and Jonas are paying their tabs. “You leaving?” I ask them.

  “Yeah, I promised Angel I’d call her before too late, you know how she gets,” Jonas explains. His girlfriend is in Seattle and to say she’s clingy is an understatement. The kind of woman I’m not interested in. I want a woman who has her own life, her own passions. “I’m Jonas, and this is Torin,” he says introducing himself to Greta.

  “I’m Greta.” She smiles warmly.

  “Cute, Ansel and Greta, in a Bavarian-themed town. Did you stage this?” Torin jokes.

  Greta twists her lips, her eyes meeting mine. “Looks like it’s meant to be.” She’s not playing coy. I can tell her flirting plans on following through.

  “I’ll second that,” I say, waving good-bye to my friends, and then pulling out a bar stool for Greta. She slides in with a sigh.

  “Long day?” I ask.

  “Everyday is a long day.”

  I push my lips forward. “You aren’t here on vacation?”

  “Oh, uh, right. Vacation. Here. With my sister.” She smiles broadly, then looks over at her sister who is pulling on a coat to leave.

  “You okay staying without her?” I ask, not having pegged her for needing back up.

  “I’m great. I’m just a lady on vacation having drinks with…” She waves her hand back and forth in front of me. “With you. With you and your…” This time she circles my head with her finger. “With your face.”

  I grin. “I see, so you’re only agreeing to a drink because of the way I look?” I tsk-tsk. “I happen to have a great personality, too.”

  She laughs. “Oh, I’m sure you do, but it’s hard to notice under all those muscles.”

  I shake my head smiling, she is not tiptoeing, I’ll give her that. “You like my muscles?” I pull up my bicep, flexing for her. Showy, sure, but it makes her laugh and right now, it’s worth it. Her laugh is so damn unfiltered, absolutely genuine. It makes me want to rip off my shirt and show her my six pack. Anything to get her to make that sound again.

  “You laughing at me or with me?” I ask, giving her a cocky grin.

  She waves the bartender over. “At myself mostly, I promise.” To the bartender she asks for two shots of tequila.

  My eyes widen. “I would not have pegged you for a tequila girl.”

  “I’m not, usually. But tonight,” she says. “All bets are off.”

  I think about my fucking man bun, if bets are off, then so is this up-do. I pull the elastic from my dark brown hair and shake it out. She watches me, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Eyes filled with longing.

  Good. That’s exactly where I want her.

  “Well, in that case,” I say. “Let’s drink to that.”

  Chapter 4

  Greta

  There’s literally no reason for him to pick me out of this bar … but he did. And he isn’t looking at any other woman, his eyes are on me. Well, his hand’s on me, too. It starts on my knee, but after the second shot of tequila, my hand is resting on his shoulder, and then he leans in closer, close enough to kiss.

  I pull away, abruptly. Not because I don’t want this.

  I do want this. Need it, even.

  But I don’t want to kiss anyone in public. Not when the entire town knows about Luke.

  No. I want to kiss Ansel. I want his hands to crawl up my bare back. I want him to lay me on his bed and remind me that I am more than a mother or a sister or a widow. I want to be reminded that I’m a woman, and he’s the perfect man to jog my memory.

  “So what do you do?” I ask, trying to get a feel for this guy beyond his sexy appearance.

  He shrugs. “I’m a writer.”

  This piques my interest. I’ve been a book lover all my life. “Really? Would I recognize anything you’ve written?”

  He looks at me a beat too long, as if deciding what to reveal. “Probably not, I hate talking about my work anyways. I mean, it’s a good gig, I get to make my own schedule, work where I want, how I want, but it’s still a job.”

  “I get it. I love what I do, but at the end of the day, it’s work.” Still wanting to dig deeper I ask, “So if you had a month off of work, where you could do literally anything you wanted, the sky is the limit, what would you pick?”

  He runs a hand over his beard. “Easy. I’d rent a little cabin on a lake somewhere, alone, with a stack of books. I’d read in a hammock, drink jugs of cheap wine, and take out a canoe every afternoon.”

  I groan. “Oh my god, that sounds amazing. And no Netflix or email—just quiet.”

  He smiles. “Exactly. And I’d throw my smart phone in the lake the moment I arrived.”

  I laugh in agreement. “Right? I hate my damn phone. I can’t stand in line at the grocery store without checking Facebook.” Lowering my voice I add, “I’d say I need a twelve step program to kick my habit—but what I really need is someone to pry the device from my fingers and refuse to give it back.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” he says. “It’s a blessing and a curse, technology. Texting alone is changing our culture.”

  Thinking about my kids, I couldn’t agree more. “And what worries me is the next generation, you know, who won’t know what it’s like to actually speak on the telephone.” But then I shake my head bashfully. “Though, I’m all talk. I love emoji’s.” Raising my hands in defense, I add, “There, I said it. I’m a sucker for a heart-eyed smiley face.”

  “Me too. Sometimes a monkey covering his eyes really says it all.”

  I lean back, grinning. He smiles as he laughs and I can’t help but enjoy the fact we have a lot in common. “Well, I’m glad to know we relate on an emoji level.”

  “And a dream vacation level, too,” he adds

  I nod slowly, biting my bottom lip, wanting to be assertive and honest. “Yeah, except you said you wanted to be all alone in your cabin. I think I’d like company.”

  He raises a brow. “I mean, I’m not opposed to company—it would just have to be the right person.”

  “And what would this person be like?” I ask.

  “They’d have to understand that interrupting someone when they’re reading is never a good idea.”

  I shake a finger having something to add. “Yes, and the person would have to re
alize that when someone says they’re taking a nap, that they literally want to sleep.”

  He laughs. “So you’re not a snuggler?”

  Thinking about how many nights I’ve shared my bed with my kiddos, I reconsider my stance. “Okay, I can snuggle as long as everyone knows sleeping is the main objective.”

  “I see,” he says slowly. “So you aren’t into middle of the afternoon spooning that leads to sex?”

  Heat rises up my neck, burning my cheeks. “Now I sound like a prude. I meant I just really appreciate sleep.”

  “Good, because if I were to share this lake house with someone, I’d need to them to be interested in sex in the canoe and sex in the hammock and sex—“

  I cut him off, cracking up. “Hammock sex just sounds awkward.”

  “True. Then where would you want to get frisky at this cabin?”

  “At this hypothetical cabin, right?”

  “Right.”

  I shrug. “Uh, maybe in the woods? On a soft wool blanket, under the stars? Too cheesy?”

  He shakes his head, and rests his hand on my knee, leaning close. “Not cheesy, pretty damn perfect.”

  My heart is racing with anticipation as I realize how badly I want this night to be something different.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper. “Take me to your place.”

  Maybe it’s too fast—to meet a man and let him take me back to his hotel room, but for me, it isn’t fast at all. I’ve been waiting years for this moment, the moment where I felt ready to try again.

  “I was hoping you’d say that, Greta.” He looks at me with the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His dark brown eyes melt the icing that frosts my heart.

  He closes the tab and walks me out of the wine bar, taking my hand in his. I swallow hard, grateful he can’t see me. Truth is, a man hasn’t held my hand like this in so long. I don’t realize, until Ansel’s soft fingers lace with mine, how badly I’ve missed it.

  He looks back at me, concern in his eyes. “You okay?”

  I nod, because I am okay. I’m more than okay. I’m taking the leap that’s terrified me for so long. And Mags was right—I am scared of getting hurt—but a guy like Ansel won’t hurt me. He’s all smiles and laughs and flirting and fun. He’s the opposite of stoic Luke in every way—and for that I’m grateful.

  This is different. This is what I need.

  “So I know you aren’t from Linesworth either, but I think the rental is this way, on Sixth Street,” he says, pointing left.

  I purse my lips, as we begin walking.

  Sixth Street is definitely to our right.

  But I don’t say anything, because … well, Mags said to role-play, to pretend I am an out-of-towner looking for meaningless sex.

  She didn’t say the meaningless sex part, but that’s what this is. A one-night stand with a regulation hottie.

  Okay, I need to get a grip because no one uses phrases like ‘regulation hottie’ when describing a grown-up man with muscles that would make Thor feel inferior.

  I realize, that we’ve gone in a circle right about the time Ansel does. Maybe he should have left some breadcrumbs to lead him home after all.

  “Why don’t we try the other direction this time?” I suggest as he wraps an arm around my shoulder.

  We cross the street and he immediately recognizes where he is. “The house across the street is the rental,” he says, pointing to Lindy Lancaster’s winter rental. I don’t mention that I’ve been in book club with Lindy for the past two years or that I helped her tile the back splash in the kitchen before she listed it on Air BnB this past fall. Instead, I let him lead me inside, playing the part of a girl on vaycay.

  Not the mom whose own home is one block away.

  “Good, the guys are in bed,” Ansel says, locking the door. “Great place, right?”

  I nod looking around Lindy’s home with fresh eyes. It’s designed with an IKEA budget, and it looks cute and modern.

  “So, would you like something to drink?” Ansel asks, walking to the galley kitchen in the back of the house.

  I shake my head. “I shouldn’t—tequila is only good in moderation.”

  He pours us glasses of water and hands me one. “And are you all about doing things in moderation?”

  I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to remember what people in movies do when they go to a guy’s house after picking them up in a bar. Luke and I were high school sweethearts——adult dating is all new territory for me.

  “Probably,” I admit. “I’m not a risk taker, usually. Or that adventurous. Steady, reliable—that’s how my sister would describe me.”

  “A woman being reliable isn’t a bad thing. I think it’s pretty sexy.”

  I twist my lips. “You’re crazy. Guys like women who are spontaneous, not practical.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t need spontaneity, but if you’re looking for some, why don’t you come skiing with us one day this week. How long are you in town?”

  “Oh, I don’t ski, or go on the mountain at all. Ever.” I worry about the tightness in my voice, but Ansel doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Really?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s so fun though.”

  “And dangerous.”

  He nods. “I get it, my mom is scared of heights, too.”

  I don’t correct him. It’s not the heights that scare me … it’s the memories.

  “Anyways,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “I’m usually risk-averse, but tonight….”

  Ansel steps toward me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Tonight you’re throwing caution to the wind. Taking a chance with an old guy like me.”

  I throw back my head. “Old? Come on. You’re crazy.” I stop laughing and take a hard look at him.

  He’s so close to me, and his hips press against my own. “Well, I’m an old soul, that’s what I mean.”

  “How old are you anyways?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  I grimace, running a hand through my hair, thinking about my kids and mortgage, feeling a decade older than I am. “I’m twenty-seven. Scared of an older woman?”

  “Not in the least,” he says leaning closer. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says.

  “Likewise,” I admit.

  “But I’d like to find out,” he says, his hands move under my sweater, warm hands against my cool back. Sending shivers over my skin.

  “Me too,” I murmur, closing my eyes and letting his touch envelop me.

  It’s been so long. Years. I want to be felt and held and kissed and touched. I want to be seen.

  Even if just for one night.

  “I’m going to kiss you now, Greta,” he tells me.

  It’s like he understands that I need to hear these words to prepare myself for the moment another man’s lips press against mine.

  I nod, ever so slightly, lifting my chin, and offering myself to Ansel.

  He may be charming and effortless but he is also soft and smooth and when he pulls my mouth to his, I sink into the kiss. I sink into him.

  Chapter 5

  Ansel

  She kisses like her life depends on it. Like this is the first kiss she’s had in years, like this means the world to her.

  I won’t let her down.

  And damn, holding her against me, a hand on the base of her neck, without any intention of letting go any time soon, I swear this is the kiss of my life.

  Her mouth is experienced, like it knows what love is. She kisses like she understands passion and desire in a way other women I’ve kissed don’t. Greta kisses as if she knows there are no guarantees.

  “Oh, Ansel,” she groans in my mouth. She is all in—I feel it as she moves her hand, pressing it against my chest, feeling my body—wanting to be sure I am here.

  “I won’t let you go,” I murmur in her ear, wondering when the heat level between us rose so damn fast. We were all smiles and flirty glances back at the bar—but something’s taken over
her. Over both of us.

  Desire.

  “I want you so bad,” I tell her, unable to hold back the truth. I want her to understand how hot she’s getting me.

  “How bad?” she asks, kissing my neck, her fingers on the hem of my shirt.

  I grin, then breathe hot air in her ear, getting hard as she giggles from the sensation.

  “So fucking bad,” I admit, scooping her up in my arms. “And I’m going to show you.”

  I carry her to my bedroom, opening the door, and setting her down on the bed.

  “Getting straight to business, then, are we?” She lifts her brows, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “That’s the plan, isn’t it?” I walk toward her, leaning down, and taking her face in my hands. I lean down, kissing her sweet lips again, and her hands tug on my belt buckle. “Are you in a hurry?”

  She looks up at me, her eyelashes fluttering and her pink tongue darting over her lips. “Too forward of me?”

  I shake my head. “I love it.”

  “Good, because I am not one to tiptoe, I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

  “You’re a busy woman then?”

  She nods slowly, and for a moment I think I’ve ruined the mood. Then a smile spreads across her face and I know she isn’t going anywhere.

  “Yes, usually I am over booked—but tonight,” she says. “I’m free. Tonight, I’m yours.”

  Her words give me the permission I was waiting for, and I don’t hold back. I pull up her sweater and toss it on the floor. She has on a little tank top, her perfect breasts tempting me. She leans back on the mattress, and I undo the buttons on her jeans, pulling them off. Her long legs are bare and ready to be spread.

  “The lights?” she asks.

  I don’t press, even though I’d love the lights on — I want to see every inch of Greta — I want her comfortable.

  Flicking them off, I return to her, ready.

  I get out of my jeans, and tug off my shirt. Looking down at her, the darkness covering us, I run my fingers over her shoulders, her breasts, and when I get to her panties I pull them off by the waistband, ever so slowly. The room is still, the night is black, and the intimacy of the moment covers us.