Sugar Mountain: The Complete Series (The Mountain Men of Linesworth Book 4)

by Frankie Love

  Dammit.

  “Listen to me, Maggie. I will stand by your side no matter what happens. Just tell me, who’s the father?”

  Her lips fall into a perfect O and her eyes widen in surprise.

  “Charlie, you’re the father. You’re the only one. The only one I’ve ever wanted.”

  Relief floods my body, my face cracking into a wide ass grin and my heart fucking opening up like the goddamn heavens. I don’t know what this woman is doing to me but it is more than I ever fucking imagined.

  “We’re having a baby?” I ask, both incredulous and fucking overjoyed.

  “The condom... the night in the kitchen.”

  I swallow, remembering that it broke right before her brother walked in.

  “Are you okay? Are you angry?” I ask her.

  She covers her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes tight.

  “What?” I ask again, having known her forever, but knowing we are treading all new territory.

  She lowers her hand, still sitting in my lap, and opens her eyes. “Charlie, I’m not angry. I was scared you wouldn’t want this baby... want me. But then you came here with a cake and ring and a proposal and a kiss and I don’t know. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones ... but ... I just don’t understand.”

  I cup her face in my hands, looking into her beautiful eyes and knowing I see her soul. Her fucking life force full of passion and generosity and beauty.

  “Don’t understand what, Mags?”

  “How I ended up with everything I ever dreamed of having.”

  I push the ring on her finger then, as she cries even harder, nodding her yes, and flinging her arms around my neck, and my damn cock is rock hard as she sinks against me.

  “I love you, Mags. And I will be the best goddamn father on this side of the mountain. I won’t let you down. I swear it.”

  In my ear, she whispers, “Take me, Charlie. Now.”

  I pull her tank top over her head, her tits so perky and round, and I bury my face in them. Her skin is soft and her love is mine. She shimmies out of her leggings and I pull my jeans down. My cock is a steel rod and her pussy knows where it belongs.

  “I love you, so much,” she says. “I’ve loved you since I was a little girl.” She runs her hand over my length, and I run my hand over her bare back, over her smooth ass. “I have so much to learn, Charlie.”

  “About being a mom?” I look down at her belly, imaging our child in there, the size of a seed now, but soon enough it will grow to perfection. Our baby.

  She looks at me, biting her bottom lip. “No. I’ve spent a lot of time with Greta’s kids, I know babies and diapers and late night feedings. I’m talking about learning how to please you.”

  I grin, my hand running between her legs, feeling her slick pussy so ready for me.

  “Oh, baby, do you want me to fill your jelly roll?”

  She throws her head back, laughing. “Do these lines work on anyone?”

  I pull her down, against me, letting her tight cunt take all I have. She whimpers as she sinks lower.

  “They work on you if I’m reading this moment right.” I find her hand, lacing our fingers together, her diamond ring glinting as she rocks against me.

  “You’re right, Charlie.” She smiles. “I’ve always wanted you to whisper filthy nothings to me.”

  “They aren’t nothing, Mags. You’re the sugar glaze to my snickerdoodle.”

  She shakes her head with a laugh, then bringing my hand to her mouth. Kissing me as if she can’t get enough. “Snickerdoodles don’t have a glaze, Charlie.”

  “Fine, then you’re my maple glaze to my uh, bar?” I laugh, knowing that one was pretty bad. But Mags doesn’t miss a beat. The thing is, she never has. She saw the best in me when I was at my worst, and she believed in me before I understood how to believe in myself.

  “No Charlie. You’re German chocolate frosting to my celebration cake.”

  “And what’s the celebration?”

  She smiles, my cock growing in size every time she gives me that look. “Our wedding, of course.”

  Epilogue 1

  Maggie

  Snow falls, but the sun is out. The perfect day for a wedding.

  After knowing one another for most of our lives, once Charlie and I decided to get married, we have no interest in prolonging what we are ready for.

  So now, in the middle of November, a few weeks after I told Charlie that I’m carrying his child, I’m in the back room of a church, putting on my wedding dress.

  “You look so beautiful,” Hazel says, as she ties the ribbons on the back of my organza gown.

  I could have gone for something simple, something practical-- but I wanted the whole nine yards.

  I always imagined walking down the aisle toward Charlie, and now I’m ready to exchange vows, promise to have and to hold from this day forward.

  “You are just beautiful,” Greta agrees, looking at me in the full-length mirror, tears in her eyes.

  “You can’t cry now,” Hazel says, handing out tissues. “You’ll ruin your make-up, Mags.” Lucy runs into the room, beaming. “Auntie Mags, the sleigh is here!”

  Her face is precious, so full of joy, and I ask her how big the horses are.

  “This big, Auntie!” She raises her hands high over her head. The sleigh will take us from the church and lead us to a reception, where two hundred of our closest friends will be waiting to celebrate

  The sleighs arrival also means it is time for the wedding ceremony to begin.

  “Do you think the guys are ready?” I ask, turning around the room, my gown swishing as I move.

  “Yes,” Greta tells me. “I was just over there checking on Milo, and everyone looks so handsome.”

  “And Charlie, did he look nervous?”

  Hazel and Greta shake their heads. “No, sweetie,” Greta says. “He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. Though, I think this spring he’ll be even happier than he is now.”

  “It’s crazy to think we will have two babies in the family next year,” Hazel says.

  “I know,” I say. “Everything is changing so fast.”

  Greta rests her hands on my shoulders as we turn back in a full-length mirror. My gown has a full skirt and sparkles, with crystals encrusted on the bodice.

  “Change is good,” she tells me “It’s a chance to usher more love into our lives.”

  “Thanks for supporting Charlie and me,” I tell her and then I look over at Hazel thanking her as well. “I know it’s been a whirlwind…”

  Greta shakes her head. “Maggie, you can’t choose when you meet the love of your life. And you met yours when you were eight years old. Do not apologize for finally having the thing you always dreamed of.”

  The words from my sister, who carries herself with so much grace in the face of heartbreak, mean so much to me.

  And I know she says we only have one love of our life, but I hope for her that’s not true. As much as I loved Luke, I dream that my sister will find another happily ever after. No one deserves it more.

  “I think it’s time,” Hazel says. The organ begins to play and Greta reaches for the bouquets, handing them out. Lucy is so excited for her role of tossing petals that she can hardly contain her excitement, her curls bounce as she hops from one foot to the other.

  “Auntie Maggie, can I hold your hand when we walk in the church?” Her little voice is so pure and innocent.

  “Oh, you can walk her to the church, but Uncle Clive is walking her down the aisle,” Greta explains.

  “Oh, right,” Lucy says making a silly face. “And we all know Uncle Clive has lots of opinions.”

  I laugh, asking her why she thinks that.

  “Because he told me so. He said this wedding was the most important because it was his bestest friend and his baby sister getting married. He said I need to be the very best flower girl because of that.”

  I meet Hazel’s eyes. “He told a little girl all that?”

  Hazel raised h
er hands in defense. “I didn’t say a word.”

  My heart is so full when I think about how lucky we all are, to have one another. Through thick and thin, we aren’t in any of this alone.

  I take Lucy’s hand in mine, my heart swelling with gratitude as we leave the back room and head toward the sanctuary. A wedding thrown together in a few weeks shouldn’t be so organized, but everyone in town is here for Charlie and me.

  “And after the wedding, is that when you and Charlie will live happily ever after?” Lucy asks.

  I nod, having never been more sure of anything in my life.

  Epilogue 2

  Charlie

  When she walks down the aisle, it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  She looks like an angel walking toward me, her dress bright white and her lips deep red and her eyes on mine. Clive walks her to me, gives her away, and damn, that moment alone has me near tears.

  But when I slip the ring on her finger and promise her all my tomorrows, there are undoubtedly tears in everyone’s eyes.

  And when the pastor tells us to kiss as husband and wife, I pull her close. With my hand on her soft cheek, I kiss my bride.

  I kiss my wife.

  I kiss the mother of my child.

  I’ve been out on the mountain more months of my life than I can count. I spent time walking that untamed land and traversing the wild.

  But nothing compares to the adventure that I have in front of me right now.

  The adventure of living my life with Maggie.

  She is the life of the party, which everyone knows considering she invited about hundred and ninety-five of the two-hundred guests in attendance.

  But no one holds that against her. How could you? She has a way of bringing out the best in people.

  She certainly brings out the best of me.

  I kiss her again, knowing she has been nervous to have everyone see us kiss, still reeling in the embarrassment of her brother, Hazel, and Greta walking in on us in the kitchen the night I first fell for her.

  Then the pastor pronounces us as husband and wife, cheers ring from the church, and Lucy and Milo squeal in the front row. The whole damn room is lit up with love.

  During the sleigh ride, Maggie is a sight to behold-- she is absolutely glowing. With the bright white snow behind her, she reflects nothing but happiness, pure and simple.

  “We did it,” she says. “No regrets?”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  And then I pull my arm around her as the horse-drawn carriage takes us down Main Street.

  At the reception hall, we dance until our feet hurt, and people toast until there are no words left. And when it’s time to cut the cake, everyone oohs and ahhs over the piece of art that Maggie created.

  “Is it too much?” she asks, leaning in close as a photographer takes our photo.

  “No such thing as too much,” I tell her.

  Well, in truth, the cake is a little over-the-top.

  She has made a miniature cartoon version of the two of us, on top of a snow-capped mountain, and Maggie, apron-clad, holds a whisk, using it to point to something on the map I hold. I am decked out with binoculars and a backpack, a tent set up beside us.

  If you look closely, extra, extra closely, you see the map is a tiny replica of our town, and a heart has been painted right where we are now.

  Attention to detail, sure, but it’s also pretty damn cute.

  “There’s no way I can cut into this,” I tell her as the photographer tells us what we should do in order to line up the perfect shot. “It’s a masterpiece.”

  Maggie smirks and takes the knife from my hand, having no problem slicing it herself.

  “You’re not shoving it in my face though,” she tells me.

  “I know!” Before I can even go back on my word, she shoves a piece right at me.

  The room bursts into applause and laughter, and I pull my pretty little muffin to my chest. I kiss her through a mouthful of frosting knowing this cupcake is a hell of a lot more than this mountain man deserves.

  Mountain Man Bun

  1

  Greta

  With an apron covered in flour, I set the book I’ve been down reading on the counter, and pull the pan from the oven. The bakery is filled with the most classic Christmas smell known to man: gingerbread.

  Sheets and sheets of it in fact, as they are necessary to my plan. Over the next few weeks, as we lead up to Christmas, I’m going to make the most adorable gingerbread village for the bakery’s display window.

  Maggie, my sister and business partner, has told me a hundred times this plan is insane--that as a single mom I have enough on my plate this time of year. But as she sweeps into the kitchen, still practically glowing from her recent whirlwind wedding, she isn’t so negative about my December-endeavor.

  “Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here,” she groans. “Can I taste?” She raises her eyes pleading with me.

  I twist my lips into a frown, not wanting to waste a morsel of these perfect rooflines.

  “Come on, Greta,” she begs. “You can’t deny a pregnant woman her cravings.”

  I scoff, knowing a thing or two about pregnancy myself. “It’s not for eating--I mean it. I baked it extra long so the pieces would be sturdier for when I assemble the walls.”

  She groans. “Gah, you’re so lame.”

  Laughing, I turn off the oven. “I won’t argue with you there. Look at me, I’m in the bakery on a Friday night, rereading my favorite book for the twentieth time. Not exactly the poster child for a good time.”

  “Does that make me lame, too?” Maggie asks. “Because in that case, I’m outta here.”

  Smiling, I use a spatula to move the pieces of gingerbread to a cooling tray. “Yeah, you’re lame by association. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.” A piece breaks as I move a rectangle and Maggie grins like it’s payday.

  She opens a fridge and grabs a bowl of cream cheese frosting. Using an inverted knife she smears a hefty layer on the broken piece and moans obnoxiously as she inhales it.

  “It’s AH-MAY-ZING, Greta.”

  I smirk, and take the knife from her hand, making my own nighttime snack.

  “Where are the kiddos?” Maggie asks, chewing with her mouth open like an absolute child.

  “With Hazel and Clive. She promised them a movie night, they’re doing a whole sleepover thing.”

  “That’s sweet,” Maggie says. “But shit, does that mean she’s a better auntie than me?”

  Hazel married our brother earlier this year and she couldn’t have fit in better with our family if she’d been a special mail-order bride. While Mags and I own Two Sisters Bakery, Hazel owns the candy shop a few doors down on Main Street in the Bavarian-themed village where we live.

  Finding a distinct, older sister thrill in ruffling my sister’s feathers, I say, “I think she’s in the running. She even knit them gloves for their stockings.”

  “What?” Maggie’s eyes bug out of their sockets. Then with a cocky shrug she adds, “Well, I planned on getting them candy. I’ll still win Auntie of the Year.”

  I laugh out loud. “You mean candy you bought from Hazel’s shop? I think she’ll still win.” I roll up my sleeves and begin assessing phase two of my gingerbread village. “Besides, you know Lucy and Milo love you to pieces. You were their second mom when I was putting my life back together after Luke died. Even if Hazel joined our family going one hundred miles an hour, you have a pretty good track record, Mags.”

  Maggie shoves the mixing bowl of frosting back in the fridge and I look at the time. It’s eight o’clock and I either need a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

  As if reading my mind, Maggie says, “In that case let me take my older and wiser sister out to dinner. I’m starving and Charlie is on a snow shoe thing for the next three days.”

  I swallow, whenever I think about Maggie’s husband Charlie or my brother Clive taking people out on the mountain, my mind goes to Luke.
<
br />   Every. Single. Time.

  To his fatal accident. To the night I lost my husband, the love of my life, much too soon. Charlie and Clive were Luke’s business partners, they co-owned an outdoor expedition company. So I can never get very far from the mountain. And truthfully, the fact that I live at the base of it probably doesn’t help. Every time I look up, I’m reminded of what I lost.

  “Earth to Greta,” Maggie says looking at me as if I’ve gone to outer space. “Come on, let’s go. You need to eat something besides sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe I’ll stay here and make another batch of gingerbr--”

  Before I can complete my sentence, Maggie’s shaking her head and covering my gingerbread with plastic wrap. “No way, you have a kid free night, you ought to enjoy it.”

  2

  Greta

  Sitting on a high table in a wine bar bistro that we never frequent, I can’t help but feel out of place. Especially since I’m drinking alone. Maggie’s in the bathroom-- taking forever, I might add--and I reach in my purse to grab my copy of Her Fragile Heart while I wait.

  All it takes is rereading a single passage from this well-worn copy for my heart to slow and for me to relax. Every time I open this book it’s like I’m being comforted by my oldest friend. Whoever wrote this novel gets me in a way no one else ever has.

  Maggie slides back to the table and I dog-ear my page, hoping to get it out of her sight before she starts commenting on my choices. I’m not quick enough.

  “Greta, I don’t get the obsession. That story is depressing. Why do you keep reading it?”

  “It’s not depressing,” I say defensively. “It’s real.”

  She snorts.

  “Maybe it didn’t win any fancy awards,” I say. “But it won my heart.”