Sneak Peek: Romanced by The Mountain Man

Chapter One

Blade

“Have you ever shot someone’s eye out with one of your arrows?”

I glance at Jacob, the eight-year-old kid that’s currently holding his compound bow and arrows. The boy is Duke’s younger brother. Since his father abandoned the family, Duke has been struggling to care for his brothers and his sick mama. The mountain men of Courage County have taken the family under our wing.

Now I’m at the outdoor archery range that’s part of the gym on the edge of town. I’m supposed to be showing him how to shoot. I think there’s something deeper the guys expect me to teach him, but I know fuck all about how to be a decent human.

“No,” I answer, my voice coming out deep and rumbly. It’s a voice that earns me a nice living. These days, I’m a book narrator, reading dirty romance novels out loud. It’s not a bad way to make a paycheck, but that’s not why I do it.

“Oh.” He looks disappointed at the fact that I’ve not blinded anyone with my archery skills.

Fuck, is this the place where I’m supposed to discourage him from being violent? If so, the other men really picked the wrong mentor for the boy. I grew up fighting for everything I had.

He continues his questioning, “Could you if you wanted to, even with one arm?”

“Yep.” As soon as the word leaves my lips, I know it was the wrong thing to say. After losing my arm in the service, I spent some time searching for a hobby. I saw a video about an armless man who could do archery, and I figured I could do the same. Turns out, I’m good with a bow and arrow.

Jacob’s eyes light up, and I worry he’s already trying to decide on a target.

“But just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should,” I add to the end as if that will make a difference. If the kid is anything like I was at that age, it’s too late. The idea is already in his brain.

“But it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t,” he argues back.

Fuck, this kid is me. Better to stop while we’re ahead and everyone still has their vision. “We’ll do another lesson next week.”

He groans but gathers his gear away without too much complaint. While he’s doing that, I check my phone for a new message. There are a few emails about my projects, including a couple from two other authors I read for. I’m developing an excellent reputation in the industry even though I’m new to it.

But there’s only one name I’m scanning my inbox for: Gwen Hughes. She’s my favorite writer and maybe I have a small thing for her. Very tiny. Barely noticeable. Seeing her name in my inbox never makes my mouth go dry or my heart beat fast. I don’t obsessively watch those live videos she does for her fans like some damn creeper with his hand crammed down his pants. Nope, totally normal over here.

She hasn’t messaged me again. Not since yesterday morning when she sent me one to say she had a book signing in Asheville today. Like I didn’t already know that. Like I hadn’t already talked myself out of meeting her in person three times.

I don’t have another message from her since I didn’t respond to her invitation. She asked me to meet up and I just ghosted her. Because I’m an asshole.

It’s better this way, I remind myself. Better if she doesn’t know me. I’m no romance book hero. I’m not one of those devilishly handsome alpha wolves or the sexy fated mate that seduces the beautiful curvy woman.

I’m the bastard who’s done whatever it took to build a good life. One where I can eat real food from my own garden instead of searching through the dumpsters for old, spoiled remnants. One where I can go to sleep at night on a soft, comfortable bed instead of whatever springy, lumpy mattress was reserved for foster kid of the week.

Yeah, she’s better off never knowing me. Hell, it’s not like she could find me anyway. She might remember that I live in Courage County. But other than a small group of fellow mountain men, no one here knows my legal name and that’s what I use when I’m narrating. To the fine folks in town, I happen to be Blade. A name that doesn’t encourage people to get too close, which is just the way I like it.

“How many people have you shot with your arrow?” Jacob asks as the two of us start down Main Street toward my truck. I promised his brother I’d bring him home tonight. I figure it’s one less thing for Duke to worry about this way.

“Zero.”

“Are you sure?” He asks as if I’m holding out on him. “My brother says you were in the Army. That means you had to have shot somebody, right?”

I don’t bother correcting him that I was in the Navy or disappointing him with the knowledge that I didn’t shoot anyone. Instead, I help him into my truck and start a conversation with him about the latest superhero movie he saw at the theater in Sweetgrass River last weekend.

He chats a mile a minute, starved for attention and affection. I barely have to grunt out a response before he starts up again. By the time we’re at his place, he’s educated me on the complexities of all his favorite superheroes. I promise I’ll see him next week and wave as he disappears into his house.

With a tired sigh, I begin the drive to my cabin. It’s a forty-minute trip up the mountain. Forty minutes to think about Gwen, to wonder where she is and what she’s doing.

Did her book signing go well today? Did lots of her fans show up and gush about her latest book? Fuck, I hope so. I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s not thinking about me and wishing I were by her side the way I’m wishing that.

She’s single. I’ve been able to put that much together, but it doesn’t mean that she spends her nights dreaming of me the way I do of her. It doesn’t mean that she wakes up in a cold sweat under twisted sheets and has to touch herself to be able to relieve the insistent ache.

Until about three years ago, I’d never read a romance book in my life. I rarely read anything until I lost my arm. The days in the hospital were filled with endless appointments involving physical therapy and mental health counselors followed by circle time where a bunch of guys got together to bitch about their lost limbs.

But at least, the days were busy. Nights were the worst. In the sterile, dark room there was nothing to distract me from the phantom pain.

Then a local women’s organization gave out baskets filled with gifts for the injured veterans. The second-hand reading tablet was inside of mine. Guess whoever donated the reading tablet didn’t think to erase it.

I picked it up when I was trying to distract myself. I found the device pre-loaded and opened a book on it. That night was my first taste of a story from Gwen Hughes and well, I’ve been a fan ever since. I own all of hers in print. Both the paperbacks and the hardcover editions with discreet covers.

Hell, I have an entire shelf of my bookcase devoted to her works. I just wish it contained the signed copies. It sounds crazy, but I want to hold something she’s held. I want to sniff the books to see if they have the slightest hint of her perfume.

Now all of my wishes have caused me to start hallucinating. That’s the only explanation for the woman standing by the broken-down car with a hand on her curvy hip. Her long, brown hair flows down her back, and she scowls at the smoking sports car.

It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize that I just passed her. I’ve never been one to leave a motorist stranded on the side of the road. Definitely not a woman alone. But there’s an awareness in my gut, something is tingling.

“It’s not her,” I say out loud as I put the truck in reverse. I’m seeing things. I’m so damn desperate to know what it feels like to have my hands on her hips and stare into that captivating brown gaze that my imagination is in overdrive.

She’s the only reason I started narrating. Once I was hooked on Gwen’s books, I started watching her live streams. From there, I knew I had to find a way to get close to her.

When I saw she was looking for a male narrator for her books, I sent her an email. I insisted I was the man for the job. I didn’t tell her that I had no experience or that I spent hours watching video tutorials to learn how to do it after she decided to give me a chance. I just needed to be around her.

Now, I stop on the side of the road, and the woman turns. That scowl that was directed at her car is focused on me.

My heart skips a beat. It’s her.

Gwen Hughes is actually on my mountain, and she looks mad as hell too. She pushes her hair out of her face and marches up to my truck. With every step, her little blue jean skirt is swishing against those thick thighs that are a staple in all of my dirtiest fantasies. “Would you believe some asshole sold me this piece of junk?”

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