by Frankie Love
Followed By The Mountain Man
The Mountain Men of Linesworth
Frankie Love
Contents
About
Prologue
1. Benji
2. Tillie
3. Benji
4. Tillie
5. Benji
6. Tillie
7. Benji
8. Tillie
9. Benji
10. Tillie
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 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.
About
FOLLOWED BY THE MOUNTAIN MAN
By Frankie Love
Hard and fast in 280 characters or less.
If his number one goal is to make me crazy, it’s working.
This arrogant cook has never met a woman he wanted to sleep with more than once.
Me? I’m an old-fashioned girl and a virgin to boot.
I want the real thing and I want it to last forever.
So why is he following me on Chatter?
And asking me to Chatter him back?
He may have a million followers, but his cocky one-liners won’t work on me.
He says he’ll follow me to the ends of the earth, but I can't help thinking he just wants another conquest.
And even if it is more than that, I'm not sure I can handle the heat he brings.
Dear Reader,
Benji’s a mountain man chef with an appetite.
He’s starving and ready to eat whatever you’re cookin’!
So place an order and take a seat — it’s time for a meal you’ll never forget!
#yummy #whatsfordinner #ordersup #fingerlickinggood
Love, Frankie
Prologue
Tillie
Here’s the thing: I may be a twenty-four-year-old woman living in the time of social media, selfies, and hashtags, but deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl.
Well, not even that deep down. It’s basically on the surface and I’m not exactly hiding it. I, Matilda Jones, am holding onto an optimistic outlook that true love is worth waiting for.
I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve kinda girl who grew up on rom-coms with clichéd happily-ever-afters. They are the best. And not just because they make me believe that maids in Manhattan can find their one true love, not just because they reaffirm that shopaholics can find more than a green scarf. They are movies that remind me that in the end, everything turns out okay.
So why does the deliriously sexy man ten yards away make me want to forget everything I ever believed?
Because he is making my life a living hell.
And it’s hard to believe in getting my own HEA when this cocky chef keeps looking at me like I’m an idiot for believing that my hard work will eventually equal a payoff. He’s so obnoxious with his long line of customers every day at noon, all gobbling up his carefully curated menu. And then here I am, looking at my unsold muffins and scones as they dry out as the sun rises in the Bavarian-style mountain town of Linesworth where I was born and raised.
I always thought that by now I would be getting somewhere with my life… but since I finished college a few years ago, I’ve been wandering from one thing to the next, overstaying my welcome at the cottage my parents bought several years ago — intending it to be a rental.
I’ve always loved the farmer’s market, ever since I was a little girl. I’d come here each week with my parents and get an ice cream cone or elephant ear and Mom would buy kale and tomatoes and Dad would buy aged sausage links and we’d all leave happy. It was magic, those mornings, the place where I felt coziest in the whole wide world, and it’s where I wanted to be. I love this town, the community of artists and entrepreneurs that live here, not to mention the drool-worthy bearded men that come here for outdoor adventures.
I went to college for accounting. And while I could get a job in an office, the only places hiring were over the mountains in Seattle. I didn’t want to leave after I’d just moved back.
I always loved making pottery as a hobby, and I have sold it at market off and on, but it doesn’t earn enough to pay the bills. I have worked odd jobs, helping local restaurants when they’re short staffed or when the city is throwing big festivals.
When I saw an old food truck for sale on Craigslist, I decided to use the last of my cash to buy it. I always loved cooking for my family, and everyone always says I make amazing food. I thought it would help me become self-sufficient. My dad helped me paint it, and I slapped on a logo. My mom helped me refurbish an old espresso machine and I started baking muffins. The plan was to park it at the market and sell lattes and treats to everyone buying their produce and handmade wares.
It seemed easy enough. Unfortunately, no one wants my coffee. Or my treats.
They only want Benji’s grub from his aptly named Lumberjack Smoke Haus. It smells divine, hickory smoked BBQ bratwurst. The fact that we’re a Bavarian-style village filled with mountain men and he is offering this cuisine? I mean, it’s on point.
Which is great. I mean, really fantastic. I’m so happy for him.
Also maybe a teeny bit jealous. And by teeny, I mean a whole heck of a lot.
Because while I’ve been hustling hard, he just drove into town, parked his fancy-pants food truck a block away from mine, and started making bank. He isn’t even a local!
I know I sound a bit pathetic.
And a bit dramatic.
Sure, he has a beard and allegedly loves to mountain climb, but he’s flashy in ways this town isn’t. The town that I love.
And last week, he started following me on Chatter. And he direct messaged me, asking me to follow him back. Who does that? I mean, my account is private — and he has plenty of women following him already. Why does he care about me and my totally inconsequential food truck competition?
He’s a “reformed” city slicker who loves his smartphone. He uses the Chatter app to convey his every last thought, sending out chats day and night to his gajillion followers, who seem to think he is God’s gift to this mountain.
It’s driving me batty. It’s keeping me up at night. And no, not just the visions of his delectable bearded face… I hate being in a feud with him, mostly because he seems to have absolutely no idea that I loathe him.
And the longer he’s here, the more I wonder what is going to become of me.
I’m an old-fashioned girl, but Benji is making me want to turn over a new leaf. Instead of sweet, I’m about to become all kinds of sassy.
1
Benji
Every morning it’s the same thing — Tillie looking cute as can be as she sets out her A-frame sign, signaling people to her food truck. Especially For You, the sign reads.
It’s all adorable — her truck is turquoise and bright red. The cheery colors inviting people to her window, where they can buy fresh coffee and scones. Her bright smile and eyes that sparkle. Her teeth as white as the snowcapped mountains.
But it’s all wrong.
I mean, she has some seriously stiff competition. The farmer’s market is just past the main street of Linesworth — where the Three Sisters Bakery touts the state’s most famous cinnamon rolls. The customers wind around the corner and there are always people sitting inside the shop, eating fresh baked treats and piping hot l
attes. And there’s another coffee shop farther down the street next to the bike shop my friend Kodiak owns.
Tillie’s truck offers people the same thing they can get anywhere else.
Not like I’d mention it. The woman can’t stand me. Only because she never has customers, and I always have plenty. My BBQ sausages are even better than you’d imagine. Fucking delicious and literally invented with this town in mind.
It grates at her last nerve.
How do I know this? Oh, because she huffs by my truck several times a day, often with her best friends Kensie and Windsor in tow. The three of them scowl viciously my way and I usually lift my hand and wave with a big smile meant to annoy them.
It’s working.
And why I am continually so damn obnoxious is beyond me… because the truth is Tillie is cute as fuck. She’s got the whole girl next door thing going on and she’s so not my type that it has my interest piqued.
I jump out of my truck and take a photo of myself at the market, busy with customers. Lots of tourists. It’s summer in Linesworth and that means people are here for white water rafting in the Linesworth River and biking up the mountain and wine tasting on the outskirts of town.
Opening the Chatter app, I upload the selfie and type out a chat: Perfect day for a sausage — come and get mine. #Footlong #GetStuffed
Okay, a bit of an innuendo, but that’s what I’m known for. And hell, I am selling sausage!
I take orders for the next few hours until closing time. Before I shut down for the night, I see Tillie marching over to me with arms crossed, eyes narrowed in. On me. My cock twitches — now that is a sight to behold. This freckle-faced girl looking like she’s all worked up. Damn, I’d like to work her over.
“How can I help you?” I ask, leaning over my counter, looking down at her. She’s all curves, and that pursed-lip attitude of hers is something I can work with.
“You can help me by not posting photos of me on Chatter. I mean, honestly, are you just trying to annoy me?”
“I didn’t post a photo of you,” I say, lifting my hands in defense.
“Oh yes, you did,” she says, pulling out her phone and pointing to my latest chat. “Look, I’m right there looking like a freaking moron.”
She zooms in on the photo and she’s right. Tillie is taking a giant bite of a sandwich right behind me, looking in a different direction. It’s not flattering, but it isn’t terrible. I mean, her face is all squished as she takes a chunk of the sammie, but I mean, it’s her — she still looks adorable in her oversized overalls and red high top Converse.
I grin. “You follow me on Chatter?”
She groans, looking at the phone in disgust. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? God, Benji, you’re worse than the rumors say.”
“So you’re gossiping about me too?” I wink. “I must say I’m flattered.”
She grunts. “Are you for reals? You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“Delete the photo,” she hisses. “Now.”
Biting away the smile, I pull out my phone and open the app. “Well, fuck, girl, everyone likes this photo. I have over a hundred thousand likes already.”
“And I’m a trending hashtag,” she seethes.
Cringing, I check what she means. Trending at number fourteen, there she is, #SausageMouthful.
“I wasn’t even eating your sausage!” she shouts. “I mean it — delete it, Benji. Please.”
“It’s already been shared thousands of times,” I tell her. “Maybe you can use this as a marketing campaign. Free publicity. I could tag you.”
“I don’t want to be tagged in that, Benji. I just want it gone.”
I would make some jokes about it being the wurst, but Tillie doesn’t think this is funny. In fact, I think she’s crying. Fuck. I don’t do crying women.
“Fine,” I say, not looking up at her. “I’m deleting it as we speak.” I delete the post, and send a quick note to customer service, flagging the image and asking it to be removed from shared posts.
“Thank you,” she says, exhaling with relief. She turns and begins to walk away when I call out her name.
“How about I take you out for a drink to apologize?” I suggest.
She stops on her heels. “You want me to get a drink with you?” The way she says it, her tone, has me on edge. Like she wouldn’t want to be caught dead with me. Like going out with me would be a blot on her permanent record. Her spotless record. And yes, I know it is blemish-free. I’ve asked around about her, and Kodiak and my brother Wyatt both have filled me in: Tillie is a good girl. And I cannot mess with her heart, because apparently it’s made of gold.
“As friends,” I clarify. “Just two food truck owners having a beer. Like co-workers.”
“You promise not to take another ugly photo of me?” she asks, her big brown eyes like melted chocolate. Sweet. Satisfying. Simply off-limits.
“I promise,” I tell her. “But I can take good photos too, you know.”
She snorts. “Right, and you have a Chatter feed full of your selfies to prove it.”
“Judgey much?” I tease, jumping out of my truck and locking it up, latching the awning closed. “So I take it you hate social media?”
“Not exactly. But sometimes… do you ever look at a feed and compare yourself to what you see?”
I run a hand over my beard, considering her words. “Not really, no. To be honest, I kinda like myself.” She twists her lips, as if considering my words. I have this weird desire to reach out and grab her hand, but instead I bump my shoulder against hers. Friends.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get that drink. And maybe if I’m nice, you’ll let me take a good photo of you.”
“I’d ruin your feed’s aesthetic,” she says with a sigh. And I realize then, she doesn’t see herself like I do. Goddamn gorgeous and so fucking sweet. Perfection.
I guess I have to do more than simply show her my sausage. If I want Tillie’s respect, I’ve gotta prove to her that I’m more than what she thinks.
2
Tillie
We go to the brewery on the corner of Main Street, Hoppin’ Joes, and we slide into a booth. When Sally, a waitress I went to high school with, comes over with menus, she gives us a long once-over, trying to tease something out with her wide eyes, but I refuse to give in. Let her talk, let the whole town talk. I’m sure they already are. The virginal Matilda Jones out with the new town bad boy with a beard.
“I’ll just take a pear cider,” I tell her, handing her back the menu.
“Are you hungry?” Benji asks.
“I thought we were getting a drink.”
“But friends can eat together too,” he says.
I twist my lips and he grins. Turning to Sally, he orders a pretzel with hot mustard, loaded fries, a plate of chicken wings, and a dark beer.
“So I take it you didn’t eat your own sausage before closing the truck for the night?”
He pushes his lips forward, laughing. “You’re pretty funny for having such an uptight reputation.”
“I’m not uptight!” I say, indignant.
“Yeah? Yet you never go out with anyone.”
“How would you know? You’ve lived here what, a few months? Maybe I had a long-term lover who died in a plane crash and I’m alone every night because I’m a grieving fiancée.”
He chuckles. “That’s not what Kodiak or Wyatt say. But who knows, maybe they’ve got shitty investigative skills.”
Sally brings us the drinks and says the food will be a bit longer. I take a sip of my cider, not knowing where in the world this conversation is going.
“So did you?” he asks, leaning in, elbows on the table. I hate the fact that his eyes are on mine, the fact that my whole body heats up as he inches closer.
I lean back into my seat. “Did I what?”
“Did you have a lover who died tragically? Because if they did, I don’t want to joke about it.”
“No. There was
no lover. But that would be more interesting than the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
I shrug. “I’m holding out for my one true love. My soul mate.”
Benji smirks. “You believe in all that?”
“I believe in all sorts of impossible things, Benji.”
“That’s cute.” He drinks his beer and smiles as Sally drops off the food. “But I hate to break it to you, Tillie. Sounds like a fairy tale.”
“So?”
He breaks apart the pretzel and dips it in the mustard. Is it terrible that I can’t help but stare as he takes a bite? Is that creepy? Yes. Yes, it is. I look away, eyes rolling at my own insanity. This is a man I loathe, remember? But then why do I find him so ridiculously hot?
“So you’re gonna live your whole damn life waiting to live?” he asks.
I sigh. “I’m already living. I have a wonderful family, great best friends, I love this town, and I even have my own business. That sounds like I have a life. A good one.” When he doesn’t speak, I raise my voice. “And besides, who are you to judge? You date lots of girls — I see your posts on Chatter. All those groups of women who come here for girls’ weekends of wine tasting? They practically fall in your lap.”
“It’s not my fault they all love my sausage,” he says, deadpanned.
I groan. “This is so stupid. Why am I here again?”
Ignoring my question, he pushes the hot wings toward me. “I think your blood sugar is low. Eat.”
He’s annoyingly correct. I’ve only had coffee and muffins all day. I need protein before I start melting. And me in meltdown mode isn’t cute. Not that I’m trying to be cute right now. But I do want to come off as at least partially in control.