Mountain Man Bun

by Frankie Love

  “You’re not my boss,” he cries. “Mommy, tell her she’s not my boss!”

  “Hey, kids, calm down.” A man with a burly ass beard gives the kids a stink eye. “Let your mom breathe—she’s still working.”

  I take a hard look at this man who just showed up here like this. She said she wasn’t dating anyone, but fuck, is she married? I look at her ring finger, and see that it’s bare—and this guy has a shiny new band on his. Maybe he’s her ex?

  “Thanks so much, Clive, I really needed a break.”

  “Let me guess, you stayed here all night baking?”

  Her cheeks heat up and she laughs nervously. “Uh, something like that.” She flashes him a fake smile. “Where’s Hazel?” The kids wait for Maggie to finish serving Torin and Jonas and then she helps the kids with their treats.

  Torin and Jonas look over at me as if asking what gives. Hell if I know.

  “Hazel just went to grab something in the candy shop,” the big guy tells her. “After the kids eat we’re going to get some Christmas shopping done until you’re off.”

  “Wow, sounds great.” Greta raises her eyebrows and looks over at me, where I’m standing with arms crossed. Not saying I’m intimidated by the guy, but I do want to know his intentions.

  “Who are you?” he asks gruffly.

  “I’m Ansel. A friend of Greta’s.”

  The guy shakes his head. “Not possible. I know all her friends.”

  “God, Clive,” Greta huffs, pushing the man away. “Intense much?”

  The guy shrugs his shoulders, laughing “What? You know I keep tabs on my older sister.”

  “Do you always have to tack on the older part?” She scowls.

  I cock an eyebrow her way. “This your little brother?”

  “Yeah, Clive’s my brother. He and his wife Hazel had my kids last night.”

  I nod, relief washing over me. She wasn’t trying to keep anything other than the fact that she was a mom from me.

  She’s the epitome of the entire package—which may be jumping to conclusions—but you can learn a lot about a woman when you sleep with her. Hell, when she screamed my name last night it told me everything I need to know.

  “So how do you know my sister?”

  Knowing the kids are out of earshot, I say what I want. “We’re dating, Greta and I.”

  Her mouth drops into a perfect O.

  I like that look on her.

  “Dating?” She shakes her head. “Uh, you sure about that, Ansel?”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I tell her, walking toward her, ignoring Clive altogether.

  She purses her lips. “I don’t exactly remember you asking me out.”

  “It’s what I was trying to do,” I tell her. “But you kept making excuses. Something about things being complicated.”

  “Aren’t they though?” she asks, jutting her chin to the table where her two kids are eating glazed donuts.

  I shake my head. “I’m not scared.”

  She presses her fingertips to her forehead. Quietly she asks, “Are you messing with me?”

  Her eyes are filled with so much sincerity that it makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and lock her away from anything in the world that might scare her. Might hurt her.

  I want to protect her.

  “I don’t play games.”

  She smiles, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “You just lose bets?”

  “Something like that.”

  Her eyes are soft and welcoming and I lean closer, wanting to memorize everything about her.

  “Uh-hum,” Clive coughs. “Kids are present.”

  Greta jumps back, pressing her lips together as if it’s necessary in order to hold herself back from kissing me.

  “So tonight? Five o’clock. Dinner?” I ask.

  For a moment, I think it’s going to be an easy yes, but then she looks over at her kids. Wistfully she sighs, “I don’t have a sitter—”

  Maggie sweeps in, cutting her off, apparently listening to the entire conversation, along with her brother.

  “I’ve got the kids tonight. I’m vying for Auntie Of The Year at the moment, and need to step up my game.”

  Chapter 9

  Greta

  We get through three chapters of the Boxcar Children before we fall asleep, Lucy and Milo tucked beside me in my bed, for a long afternoon nap. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who stayed up past her bedtime. They stayed up pretty late at Auntie and Uncle’s last night too.

  We all seem to wake around the same time, and I pull my babies close, kissing the tops of their heads. “Did you have a fun day with Uncle Clive?” I ask. With a teasing tone I add, “Any presents I should know about?”

  “They’re secrets Mommy,” Milo squeals. “They’re hiding at Uncle’s house.”

  “Don’t tell her where we hid them,” Lucy admonishes.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I tell her. “Easy now.” She’s been giving Milo such a hard time lately, and the older sister claws are definitely coming out. I try not to worry too much about it myself, remembering all too well what a bossy older sister I used to be.

  “Surprises are fun at Christmas, is all,” she says.

  “So are daddies,” Milo says softly.

  “What’s that mean?” I ask, my chest aching for what my kids have lost. Milo never talks like this though. He was so little when Luke died.

  “He means,” Lucy explains. “That daddies do things at Christmas like chop down trees and put lights outside around the house.”

  “Mommies can do those things too,” I say, trying not to be offended at my children’s division of household responsibilities. “We always get a tree.”

  “A little one. From a store. I want a big one this year. Big enough to touch the ceiling.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, then let’s get a big one. The hardware store sells lots of sizes.”

  “I don’t want one from a store. I want one from the woods. The kids in class chop ‘em down with their daddies.”

  “Um. Well,” I say trying to keep my voice even. “Sure, we can ask Uncle Clive or Uncle Charlie to help us cut one down. It will be an adventure.” I say this even though this is a terrifying idea. One I don’t know if I’m ready to face.

  That mountain is where I lost Luke … and returning to it … terrifies me.

  “Mommy hates the mountain, Milo.”

  For once Milo doesn’t argue with his big sister’s correction. Instead he nods sadly, pressing his tiny hand to my cheek. “I don’t want to scare you, Mommy. We don’t have to go.”

  Lucy’s eyes meet mine. She remembers a little bit about what it was like when her dad was alive. They’ve both watched the videos a thousand times, videos of their births, first steps, first food—all footage that includes Luke. But there are so many more firsts neither of the kids will have with Luke.

  “Hey,” I say, squeezing them close. “We will chop down a tree this year. We can invite the whole family, okay? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

  Milo and Lucy look up at me, eyes twinkling, full of love that is so pure and true it makes me well up with emotion.

  “Don’t cry Mom,” Lucy says. “It’s just a tree.”

  Laughing, I think they’re right. It is just a tree. A tree on a massive hill. Going back to the mountain doesn’t need to be bad—it can be a brave and simple thing.

  “This can be the start of a new tradition,” I tell them.

  Their faces filled with joy tells me it’s the right call—even if it’s scary.

  By the time Ansel knocks on the door I’ve changed my clothes four times. When Maggie came to pick up the kids a half hour ago she told me to chill the fuck out—which is easier said then done. Then she handed me a glass of Chardonnay, which helped with my nerves.

  Last night’s fling was one thing—this is an actual date.

  She convinced me that a simple black sweater with dark denim skinny jeans paired with my tall leather boots were a simple, sophisticated, and yet “me” en
semble. She said I was golden so long as I didn’t wear my clogs.

  “You look beautiful,” Ansel says, walking in from the cold handing me a bouquet of flowers.

  “You don’t look half bad yourself,” I say, letting him pull me in for a kiss. It’s so unexpected, to be kissed like this … without reservation. But I give into it—into him. His kiss is offered without expectation and maybe that’s why it’s so appealing—why he is so appealing.

  When we pull apart, I press a hand to my chest, feeling flustered and overwhelmed—in a good way.

  “That was one hell of a hello, Greta,” he says, holding my gaze and cupping my face in his hand. I close my eyes, sinking into him, realizing how badly I want to be held. Held by him.

  But then I remember myself—the million reasons why I’m acting on impulse and not with my brain. I shake my head, trying to brush the moment away, but Ansel doesn’t let me.

  “Greta, do you want me to go?” he asks softly. “I know I kind of forced this date on you this morning, and I don’t want—”

  I cut him off. “No, I’m glad you’re here. I want you.” Blushing, I add, “Want you here, I mean.”

  “Last night you said you hadn’t been with anyone in ages—am I the first guy you’ve been with since your ex?”

  I frown. “Ex?”

  “Ex husband, or the father of your—”

  I press a finger to his mouth. “There is no ex.” I bite my bottom lip. Why is it that when I’m with Ansel things are on hyper-speed? We haven’t even stepped from my foyer into my messy living room and we’re already discussing the fact that I’m a widow. I thought this conversation could be drawn out over the night … or over a few days. Not a few minutes.

  But that’s what Ansel does to me. Makes me forget all about restraint. Just like last night, when he pulled me to his bed, I wanted to go all in.

  “I’m a widow, Ansel. My husband, Luke, died a few years ago. In an accident on the mountain.”

  This is the moment that’s always scared me. I don’t want pity or apologies—because I don’t need them. I know what I had with Luke and I’ve mourned what we lost.

  But Ansel doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he leans back, his head falling against the front door, and exhales. As if understanding that there are no words for the kind of loss I experienced.

  Then he takes my hands and pulls me into his arms. Wrapping them around me so damn tight I think I might not be able to breathe. Still, he holds me tighter.

  It’s the one thing I’ve been missing most for two long years, a man to hold me, to steady me. To be my anchor.

  “Oh, Greta,” he whispers, pushing my hair from my ear. “You’re so strong.”

  And then … the tears come. I don’t feel strong at all. I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried.

  I don’t know why I’m crying in the arms of a man I barely know. He’s holding me tenderly, as if he understands parts of my story that I still haven’t made sense of.

  I don’t know why this is the most comforted I’ve felt since Luke died—but it is. And it makes me want to give Ansel everything I have left. All the love a woman could offer a man.

  I look up and he uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears and his eyes hold mine so intently that my skin prickles, my core stirs, my heart pounds.

  “Fuck, Greta, I want you so bad. And it feels like the most inappropriate thing to think at the moment, but I can’t help how I feel.”

  My jaw drops. Over the last few years I’ve encountered all sorts of responses to my loss, but Ansel is the first person who has made me smile after hearing about Luke.

  “Who are you?” I ask, laughing through tears. “And why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?”

  Ansel holds my cheeks with both hands, then kisses my nose, my forehead, before looking deep into my eyes, a smile spreading across his handsome face.

  “So you’re telling me you’re horny, too?”

  It’s then that I know I’m in all sorts of life-altering trouble. Because with Ansel it’s no longer just about sex. Suddenly it feels like a whole lot more.

  Suddenly, it feels like everything.

  Chapter 10

  Ansel

  When I met Greta last night, the last thing I expected was to fall for her in a real and deep way—but here I am—twenty-four hours later, my heart melting. It’s like she’s the person I’ve always dreamed of finding, but the sort of woman I didn’t believe was real.

  The crazy truth is, she’s the kind of woman I wrote a book about. The kind of woman my friends tease me I’ll never find—this woman-on-a-pedestal. In my novel, Sarah was resilient and above all else, beautiful. So damn beautiful.

  Just like Greta.

  Except, of course, Greta is real, not just a dream. Which is what Sarah was, a character I dreamt about, the woman I wanted when I closed my eyes at night.

  And so I wrote her story. It was a story of death and heartbreak and loss and love.

  I want to tell Greta that … but the idea scares me. Just how much can you know about someone in the space of a day?

  Turns out, a hell of a lot.

  “So you’re horny,” she says smiling. “But what else do I really know about you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  I follow her through her house and am amazed at how much of a home this is. Couches filled with throw pillows and stacks of books—so many books. Children’s books, and cookbooks, and novels—bookshelves and end tables filled with them.

  There’s also scented candles and Christmas decorations, and a basket of unfolded laundry. Dishes in the sink. There is kids’ artwork on the fridge and a fruit bowl is filled with actual fruit, and when she pulls open the fridge, revealing fully stocked shelves, I realize, in an entirely new way, just how incredible Greta is.

  She’s doing all of this on her own—and sure, it’s clear she has a strong support system, but she isn’t just a character from a book—she is a living, breathing woman who is raising a family on her own. I am in awe of her.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at me and pulling out a bottle of white wine.

  “You. This house. You have beautiful children and a beautiful life and somehow you are having dinner with me. I just don’t know why.”

  She snorts, pouring the wine into two stemless glasses. “Remember the part about being the sexiest man Linesworth has ever seen?” She hands me a glass.

  “So we’re back to that, this is just about screwing a hot piece of ass while he’s in town?”

  She stares into her wine glass, her tight black sweater hugging her curves in the most tempting way. Finally she looks up, but I can hardly focus on her eyes. Her hard nipples show through the sweater, telling me she’s as wanting as I am.

  “Ansel you aren’t just a piece of meat—you’re vulnerable yet still all man. Totally in charge … but also sensitive. You make me feel like there is life after death. Life beyond motherhood.…” She pauses, closing her eyes in a way that makes my heart beat hard, when her eyes close all I see is her. The woman I’ve dreamt about in the flesh.

  “All that to say,” she says, opening her eyes and exhaling. “Would you want it to be more, Ansel? More than just sex with a stranger?”

  I set down my glass without having taken a sip. My arms are around hers in a matter of seconds, the heat between us growing. This time there are no tears in her eyes, no pain—this time there is only desire.

  “I want this to last more than a night, if that’s what you mean?”

  She nods. “I want that too,” she tells me.

  I pull her mouth to mine, kissing her hard, with a growing need. And she must sense it—feel it—because her hand is on my groin, my hard cock pressing tight against my jeans. I run my hand over the curve of her ass. “Greta, you’re so fucking perfect.”

  “Not perfect,” she whispers. “Maybe, just, flawed and —”

  “Faithful,” I finish for her, the mo
ment feeling too good to be true.

  Her eyes are on mine, filled with wonder. “You’ve read Her Fragile Heart? It’s my favorite book.”

  I want to say yes, that in fact I wrote it, but she is caught in a spell, a smile breaking across her face as she practically rips off my clothing, so turned on by the fact I know the words to her favorite novel.

  “I could quote you more,” I tell her.

  She laughs. “Really?” She unbuttons my flannel shirt, pressing her hands against my bare chest. “That’s hot, Ansel, really hot.”

  “Her eyes were like full moons, bright and glowing against a dark night.”

  She looks up at me, her hands on my belt, flying over the buckle and tugging at the buttons. “Keep going,” she begs.

  In my mind, I flip through the story I’ve practically memorized, fixed on finding the right passage. “Her heart is strong, like beach glass found on the seashore. Beaten and bruised, but not broken. Stronger because of the storm. And colorful, so fucking colorful.”

  “Oh my god,” she moans, dropping to her knees and pulling my jeans down. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is?”

  My cock is hard and I know the moment she presses her mouth to me, I won’t last long. “Oh Greta,” I groan as her sweet mouth wraps around my length. “You feel so good.”

  Her fingers gently massage my shaft, her hand cupping my tight balls, and her tongue swirling over my tip. Dammit, I’m so fucking close to coming.

  “Keep talking,” she tells me, looking up from the floor, her eyes big saucers, her open mouth right on my cock. Fuck, she is amazing.

  “Darling,” I grunt. “You’re the only sunrise I ever want to see; make me worthy of your dawn.”

  I come then, unable to hold back, my hands on her head, steadying, and her hands reach around, grabbing my ass. Her mouth on my cock, deep throating me like it’s the only place she wants to be.

  “Oh, yeah,” she moans, taking my ribbons of come in her mouth, swallowing me as I fill her up. When I finish, she slowly stops sucking, as if savoring every last thrust. She licks her lips, slow as fuck, getting me hard all over again as she wipes away a droplet of come.