Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
His arms flex as he works, muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin smudged with grease. A faded ball cap obscures his face, but even from a distance, I can tell he’s not the stereotypical gruff mechanic I was expecting. He’s the embodiment of rugged mountain masculinity, with a hint of danger that sends a thrill skittering down my spine.
He glances up when he hears me approach, his blue eyes locking onto mine with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.
“You lost?” he asks, his voice deep and gruff.
My heart stops for one long moment. Lost in those eyes, maybe. I shake off the thought and straighten my spine. “I’m...your bride, Amelia.”
He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag, and I can’t help but notice how tall he is. He towers over me, his presence filling the space like a thundercloud. “Come again?”
“I’m here to answer your ad.” I clarify.
His eyes flick up and down my form before a smirk crosses his lips. “Are you kidding? That ad was listed for like two hours before I came to my senses and deleted it.”
“Oh.” My gaze falls to the oil-stained floor.
“Didn’t think anyone would show up anyway…and certainly not anyone like…you.”
My mood falls. I’m probably not his type. My thick hips and soft tummy are probably a turn-off to a fit, muscular, lumberjacked wonder like him. “So…you’re not looking for a mail-order bride?”
His eyes narrow. “Depends.”
“On…what?”
“What made a woman like you answer an ad like that?”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, what made a man like you place an ad like that?”
He grunts. Drops the wrench on the bench next to him and crosses his arms. “Had a weak moment after drinks with the boys. Did something impulsive, regretted it in the morning. Thought that was it but…” he gazes up and down my form again, “here you are.”
“Here I am.” I murmur. “I guess I’ll call a cab to take me back to the airport then–”
He chuckles softly. “Good luck. Can’t believe you convinced one to bring you all the way out here–how much did that ride cost ya?”
“Three-hundred bucks,” I balk.
His eyebrows rise. “Bastards always lookin’ to price gouge a pretty city girl.” I open my mouth to reply but he continues, “You’re lucky I’m the kind of guy that stands by his obligations. Tell you what–you’re welcome to stay until my schedule clears up and then I can bring you into Denver. If you decide you still want to go. Truth be told, I thought any woman would take one look at this place and want to hit the road anyway.”
“What would make you think that?” I ask before thinking.
“Take a look around, Sugar. This isn’t exactly the Ritz, and I’m not exactly fit for public consumption. Prefer to keep to myself more than not.”
“Oh,” I whisper, realizing that he’s probably right. Most women probably would hit the road after one look at this place and the grumpy mountain man that lives here. But I’m not most women. In fact, all I keep thinking that this experience will be even more interesting for my blog…
“Thank you for your kind offer.” I think of my dwindling bank account, another $300 cab ride does not fit into the budget this week. “One other thing–”
“What’s that?”
“My suitcase–it was lost in transit,” I explain, gesturing to my carry-on bag. “I only have this and—”
“You shittin’ me?” he interrupts. “What am I ‘spose to do about that?”
“Well, maybe you could drop the grumpy act and lend me a t-shirt or something,” I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly awkward.
His jaw tightens, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But instead of snapping back, he tosses the rag onto a workbench and motions for me to follow.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Fox’s loft is everything I expected it to be—minimalist and utilitarian, with a touch of chaos. Tools and car parts are scattered across the kitchen table, and a single leather couch takes up one corner. A ladder leads up to a small loft sleeping area, where a rumpled quilt suggests he doesn’t bother with things like tidiness.
“This is where you live?” I blurt, then wince at how judgmental it sounds.
“It’s where I sleep,” he corrects, heading to a cabinet. “Living’s not really a priority.”
I bite back a retort, my curiosity piqued. “Why not?”
He ignores me, pulling out a bottle of water and tossing it my way. I catch it awkwardly, the weight of his gaze lingering on me a moment longer than necessary.
“Tell me about this suitcase,” he says, leaning against the counter.
I explain the mix-up in detail, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way his presence seems to short-circuit my brain. When I finish, he nods slowly, his expression unreadable.
“I’ll make a few calls,” he says. “In the meantime, guess you’re stuck with me.”