How to Marry a Mountain Man Rule Number 1: Step out of your comfort zone and be adventurous.
WINTER
Slate’s brows are pulled together in a ferocious scowl. It’s the fierce look he gives to stop a stranger from making small talk with him at the Elk Shack or to intimidate opponents in his darts league.
It’s also the same look he gives when he thinks I’m out of my mind.
If I had any doubt of his opinion, Slate shakes his head at me and asks, “What the fuck, Winter?”
A giggle bubbles out of me. I bite my lip to keep it from turning into a full laugh and look at the window of his cozy cabin tucked in the Alaskan wilderness.
The fact that Slate obviously thinks that I’m out of my mind is a good thing. If Slate thinks my latest project is insane, it’s actually insanely good.
My amusement only seems to further annoy the man who has been one of my best friends most of my life. Our parents owned neighboring properties when we were growing up. We spent our childhood exploring the Alaskan wilderness. Fishing in the clear streams. Hiking the majestic peaks. Wearing flannel like it was the new black.
But I’ve come a long way from those carefree days.
In high school, my parents split up, and I moved to Seattle with my mom while my dad spent most of his time out on a fishing boat. It’s only thanks to social media that Slate and I reconnected a few years ago. Not that he’s good at doing much with any of his social media profiles beyond logging in every few months.
Still, it was enough for me to look him up when I moved back here last year.
“I’m serious.” Slate’s frown grows more fearsome, which only makes me want to laugh even more. “You’ve had a lot of crazy ideas—”
“Name one.”
One of his dark brown eyes twitches. “The lemonade stand.”
Of course. He had to bring that up. “A lot of kids hold lemonade stands.”
“Not inside a logging camp.”
“We lived in the middle of a forest. Where else we were supposed to set up our stand to make money? Besides”— I lift a shoulder—“I seem to remember that we made almost a hundred bucks.”
“I was grounded for a month.”
“Are you still not letting go of this? It happened a million years ago. Besides, it’s not like the logging company followed through with their trespassing charges. Not that the charges would have stuck.”
He just grunts and I roll my eyes.
“You’re not still salty about having to skip the fifth skiing trip because of it, are you?”
His next grunt turns into a growl.
“Because I seem to remember that you liked snowboarding a lot better. Plus, you were never much of a joiner in big group activities.”
He presses his lips into a thin line. Apparently, that argument isn’t enough to appease Slate. Who—apparently—still hasn’t gotten over something that happened twenty years ago.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll concede that we—”
He clears his throat.
“Okay, I should have asked for permission before we set up our lemonade stand at the camp.”
He gives a short nod. That’s like a gold star of approval coming from him.
I narrowly resist the urge to laugh again. “But that was ancient history. This—this idea is brand new. And I have zero doubt it will be anything but successful.”
Slate scratches his chiseled jaw, his fingertips brush through the dark beard that now graces his face. While he may have gone full reclusive mountain man these past few years, at least he has the good sense to keep his beard groomed and trimmed.
If he ever decides to get a girlfriend or wife—and that’s a big if—I’m sure she’ll be grateful not to get a taste of what he ate for dinner a week ago every time she kisses him.
I frown a little at that thought. I don’t like the idea of Slate kissing anyone. I’m sure it’s just because he’s one of my best friends. And who wants to see their best friend making out with some random person?
I grimace a little. A gesture that Slate doesn’t miss.
“Good.” He nods. “You see that it’s insane too.”
“It’s not insane.”
“You really think people are going to buy your little guidebook?”
His choice of words puts me on edge. “Little guidebook.”
He groans. “You know what I mean.”
“I’ll have you know that my agent says there are a bunch of publishers interested in How to Marry a Mountain Man. They think it’s well-researched.”
As they should. I’ve spent the past eighteen months interviewing friends and friends of friends who are all in serious, committed relationships with men of all backgrounds here in Alaska.
Never mind the fact that I have a master’s degree that specializes in human behaviors and relationships.
“They think it’s cleverly written and engaging,” I add. “We’re going to take my ‘little guidebook’ to auction. That doesn’t happen very often, thank you very much.” I fold my arms under my boobs and scowl at him with everything I’ve got. “So clearly my ‘little guidebook’ and I can’t be that ridiculous.”
“I guess there’s a market for women who are desperate to get a man.”
I suck in a breath.
He just glares at me as if to defiantly say he stands by what he’s said. Fine. If that’s the hill he wants to die on, he can go there and rot.
And I’ll be laughing all the way to the top of the best-seller list.
“Pardon my French,” I say through gritted teeth. “But fuck that and fuck you. My guidebook works.”
“Prove it.”
I’m so caught off guard, all I can do is blink. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Prove it. Prove that your guidebook works.”
I scoff at that. “As if the dozens of happily married women and mountain men aren’t proof of that.”
“They found each other without your guidebook.”
“They found love using my advice that went into the guidebook.”
“If you say so.”
I ball my hands into fists to keep from slapping his handsome, rugged face. But only because I don’t believe in resorting to violence. Even if my best friend—or maybe soon-to-be former best friend—deserves it.
“Fine.” I lift my shoulders. “How would you like me to prove it works?”
For the first time, the deeply set scowl on Slate’s face lessens. A twinkle lights up his eyes.
Uh oh. Maybe I should be afraid. Very. Afraid.
“Easy.” He cocks his head to the side, a hint of a grin playing on his lips. “Find yourself a mountain man husband.”
I hate that he looks so sexy. I also hate that he has me so worked up. “Okay, I will.”
His frown is back in place. “You think it’s that easy.”
“Honey,” I draw out, my tone dripping with sweetness, “I know it’s that easy. You mountain men aren’t so hard to work out.”
His jaw ticks. “Can you do it in three months?”
“Please, I can do it in three weeks.”
“Great.”
Then he holds out his hand. I stare at him, squarely meeting his gaze. I raise my jaw and take his hand. My heart flips a little as our palms meet. It’s nothing. Just adrenaline. The thrill of the chase.
“May the best man win,” he says.
“Oh, don’t worry.” My lips curve up. “She will.”
