Bossy Mountain Daddies: A Reverse Harem Romance, page 27
I snatch up my phone, tapping the screen like that’ll magically bring the signal back. Nothing. The map is frozen, my little blue dot stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
"Great. Just great."
I return the phone to its place, squinting through the windshield as if sheer will can clear the weather.
Focus on the road. That's all I need to do. If only I knew where I was going.
"Come on," I urge the map, tapping the screen so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. It flickers back to life, a route highlighted, yes! Noooo! It's searching again.
"Useless piece of—" I cut myself off. No use getting angry at technology when nature's the one throwing the punches. Life certainly has a way of kicking me when I’m down.
"Should have printed maps like in the old days," I joke to myself, but there's no laughter.
I steal another glance at the GPS. Searching...still searching. I take a deep breath, and my hands tighten on the wheel, but that doesn't stop the creeping panic.
"Work, damn it," I mutter, jabbing at the screen with a finger that betrays me by shaking.
My eyes flick up just in time to see the bend. I jerk the steering wheel, heart slamming against my ribs. For a second, the car obeys, aligning with the road like it knows this dance better than I do.
Then it happens. Of course, it does. This is me, Ivy Blake, we’re talking about here. Queen of Disaster. Princess of Poor Decisions.
There's a slick patch of nothingness under the tires, a sheen of ice that sends my car into a wild spin. The tires spin uselessly, the back end fishtails, and my stomach drops. Gravel spits out from beneath the wheels as the car skids too far, too fast. For a heartbeat, everything tilts—my world, the road, my damn luck.
I overcorrect. Big mistake.
My breath catches, a frozen knot in my chest. The world tilts, a dizzying swirl of white snow and dark asphalt and trees. So many damn trees.
"No, no, no, no..." It's a mantra, desperate and useless, torn from my lips.
I fight for control, the wheel slipping beneath my palms, every muscle tensed for impact. But the car has other ideas. The tires catch, lurching the car sideways, and before I can even curse. It veers in a stubborn, deadly slide toward the edge.
This is it. This is how I die—
A jolt, a crunch of metal and snow. The car shudders to a halt, wedged at an angle that spells the end of this haphazard journey.
For a long moment, I can't move. Can't think. My heartbeat thrums in my ears, a reminder that I'm still here, still alive. Not sure if that’s a good thing yet. Or a lasting thing, given the fact that I’m halfway up a mountain and I haven’t seen a house or business or another person in several miles.
"Okay," I whisper to myself, a shaky laugh bubbling up. "Okay. You're okay, Ivy."
I'm not off the mountain. Not yet. But for now, I've stopped falling. But, of course, life isn’t done shitting on me.
Let’s add a little whipped cream to that shit sundae. Maybe even a little cherry for decoration.
A sudden jolt. The engine sputters, coughs—then dies.
The quiet is deafening. No hum of the heater, no robotic GPS voice, no notifications, just the sound of the wind howling through the mountains.
Panic slams into me like a freight train. I press the start button, fingers stiff with cold. Nothing. No rumble, no reluctant chug. Just silence.
I press the start button again, fingers shaking now. The engine gives a weak clunk, then nothing.
“No, no, no.” I jab the button harder, as if force will change the outcome. Silence. The dashboard flickers, then dies completely.
Panic claws up my throat. My breath fogs in the freezing air, each exhale quicker than the last. I try again. Click. Nothing.
I grip the wheel like it might anchor me. This can’t be happening.
Forcing myself to breathe, I glance out the windshield. Snow swirls thick and fast, blanketing the road, the trees, everything. No headlights in the distance. No sign of life at all. Because I picked a remote cabin for my off-the-grid vacation. All the better to avoid the media. And apparently, all the better to get myself killed in a ditch with no one around to find me.
I reach for my phone again, heart lurching when I see the No Service symbol still taunting me. My only lifeline, useless.
A shaky laugh bubbles up, edged with hysteria. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, willing my pulse to slow down. No use panicking. I just need to think.
My car’s stuck, my phone’s useless thanks to the glorious lack of signal out here, and the nearest town is miles away.
Great plan, Ivy. Really stellar.
I rub my hands together for warmth, the cold creeping in fast. I have a thin coat in the backseat, but even with it on, I won’t last long if I have to hike through this storm.
I’m going to freeze to death, alone and headline-worthy.
Then—headlights.
Bright beams cut through the swirling snow, growing larger, closer. A truck pulls up. It's massive, dark against the snowfall. I squint, trying to piece together if it’s offering me safety or a threat.
A shadow moves, and before I can even process it, there’s a sharp rap against the window. I jump, my heart hammering against my ribs.
A man's face peers in, eyebrows lifted in question. Scruff-dusted jaw. Winter-chapped lips. Eyes like storm clouds, piercing even through the glass.
Oh. No.
My stomach does a weird flip. My mortification resurfaces in full force.
It’s the rugged beauty from the bathroom
My life is a cosmic joke. A never-ending parade of humiliation.
Maybe I did die and this is my own personal hell. That would make sense, actually.
I stare at him, willing my brain to reboot, but all it does is replay every mortifying second of our last encounter. My mouth opens—maybe to speak, maybe just to gasp for air—but nothing comes out.
Well, this is fucking awkward.
Bathroom Guy lifts an eyebrow, then gestures for me to roll down the window.
I blink, then glance pointedly at the dark dashboard, the silent engine, the very obvious lack of power. What does he think this is—the eighties? Am I supposed to magically summon a hand crank from the depths of my door panel?
I turn back to him, expression flat, and lift my hands in an exaggerated shrug. His gaze flicks to the door, then back to me, like he’s waiting for me to catch up.
"Need some help?" His voice is muffled through the glass, but I hear the concern.
Oh, for the love of—
Chapter 3 - Hank
I crouch down, my hands buried in the snow as I inspect the city girl's car. The chains I have are useless without a safe grip on her bumper. I give it another try, tug at the metal, but it's no good. It’d rip right off if I forced it.
No good. I straighten up, shaking my head at her and brushing off the cold snow that clings to my jeans.
Her brow furrows, lips pressed tight. She looks lost, her eyes scanning the endless stretch of white around us.
"Isn't there anything we can do?" Her voice holds a note of desperation, but she's trying to mask it with calm.
I glance around. Trees crowd us, heavy with snow. My phone is just a hunk of glass and metal out here; no signal can pierce through these mountains. "Not much choice. You need a tow, and that means a call."
"Can you try? Please? I don’t have any service."
I exhale sharply. “No one does. Radio’s the only thing that works up here.” I jerk my chin toward my truck. "Let's head up to my truck. I've got a radio there."
She hesitates, arms wrapped around herself, barely dressed for the weather. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip like she’s debating whether to argue. She looks like the type to argue with everything just for the fun of it.
“Unless you wanna sit here all night,” I add, already trudging back through the snow.
She huffs, mutters something under her breath, but follows. The wind cuts sharp, and I don’t miss the way she shivers. Damn city girl wasn’t prepared for mountain roads or mountain cold.
It’s January in Montana. What exactly was she expecting? Sunshine and heat waves?
I haul open the truck door and climb in, reaching for the radio mounted under the dash. Static crackles as I twist the knob. “Hank to Mason, you there?”
More static. Then Mason’s voice breaks through, rough as ever. “Yeah, what’s up?”
"Got a stranded vehicle on the ridge. Gonna need a tow.” I glance at the girl, still hugging herself like that flimsy sweatshirt and painted-on leggings of hers are doing a damn thing.
“What's your twenty?"
"About five miles east from the fork, near the old Miller place. Car’s stuck pretty good. Needs a tow when you can. She’ll freeze before the engine does."
"Roads are hell. Might take some time."
"Radio when you can get out. Thanks, Mase."
The girl's huddled against the passenger door, her arms crossed as though she can hold off the chill just by willing it away.
"Great," she mutters, more to herself than to me.
"Where you headed?" I ask, shifting to face her.
"An Airbnb," she replies. “Not far from here, I think.”
“I’ll take you.”
She meets my eyes, hesitation clear in the tight set of her jaw. There’s a silent standoff, she’s clearly weighing the risks, but the snow isn’t letting up. It’s piling higher by the minute, swallowing her chances of making it anywhere alone. Even if she did know where she was going.
Finally, she nods, a reluctant frown tugging at her lips, like she’s agreeing to something she doesn’t really want to.
“Okay,” she whispers, slipping out of the truck.
The door shuts with a dull thud behind her, the sound swallowed by the wind. I watch as she moves through the snow, graceful despite how damn miserable she looks. That city car of hers never belonged on these roads—especially not in weather like this. The hell was she thinking?
She wraps her arms around herself as she fumbles with the keys, shivering hard enough that I can see it from here. No jacket. No boots. Just an oversized sweatshirt, thin leggings, and slip-on shoes that are already soaked through. The sight needles at me.
She doesn’t match that fancy city car she’s been driving. Even roughed up by the weather, she screams money. Which makes even less sense, given the way she’s dressed.
She pops the trunk and bends down to dig through her bags, and my eyes catch on the way her hair tumbles loose from that messy bun, chestnut strands falling over her shoulders. Even dressed like this—half-frozen and worn down—she’s something to behold.
I don’t know what brought her out here, but whatever storm she’s running from must be a hell of a lot worse than the storm.
"Need help?" My voice breaks through the howling wind.
"Got it," she calls back, pulling out a duffel bag. It’s another anomaly. The thing’s top-of-the-line, the kind that costs more than some people’s rent.
For a moment, I stay put, gripping the steering wheel. What's her story? Not my business. But damn if I'm not curious. Why is she here without a proper jacket? Without boots that could handle a single step in this wilderness?
"Hey," I say as she pulls another large bag out of the trunk and drops it to the snow-covered pavement. "You sure you're good?"
"Yeah." Her teeth chatter, and she hugs the bag close, like it's a lifeline.
I huff, shoving open the door. Stubborn thing.
Trudging through the snow, I reach the trunk just as she wrestles with another suitcase.
My eyes flick over the pile. Jesus. How long is she planning to stay? There's a whole lot of them, and none look like they've ever seen a day of rough weather. Does she even have a coat in there? Maybe boots? She's standing there, arms crossed, watching me like I'm about to dropkick her prized poodle.
I grab the nearest suitcase by the handle, testing its weight. Heavy. Probably full of designer crap that won’t do a thing against this cold. With a shake of my head, I haul it up and toss it into the truck bed.
She gasps, predictable as the damn wind. "Hey! Be careful!"
I lift an eyebrow, but she just presses her lips together and looks away, cheeks flushed—not just from the cold. Interesting.
"Sorry, princess," I grumble, not sorry at all. The suitcases keep coming, one after another. They're heavy, but not as heavy as whatever's weighing on her. Her eyes follow each bag, and I can tell she's biting back words with every toss.
The last one lands, and I slam the tailgate shut. "All set?"
She nods, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she doesn't say anything. I guess silence is better than more complaints.
"Come on then." I jerk my head toward the passenger door. "Let's get you warmed up."
She shivers, rubbing her arms as we climb into the cab of my truck. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she digs through her purse—another fancy thing—and pulls out her phone.
"Where to?" I ask, ready to get this over with.
"Um, it's 259 Black Bear Ridge." Her voice is small against the hum of the heater.
I frown. That address sits funny with me. Too far out for comfort, especially with the storm breathing down our necks. "You sure that's right?"
"Yes." She holds out her phone, showing me the listing. A cozy-looking cabin surrounded by snow—it's picturesque, too much so. "It's supposed to be cozy, secluded."
"All right," I say with a shrug, pulling away from the mess of her car buried in the snow. If that's where she wants to go, who am I to argue?
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice almost lost in the roar of the engine.
The truck grumbles up the mountain, wheels biting into the gravel. Trees crowd us in a tight embrace, snowflakes dancing at the edges of the headlights' glow. The girl beside me is silent, lost in thoughts I can't begin to unravel.
By the time we crest the last hill, my gut is already tight. Something’s off.
There aren’t any rentals up here—at least none that look like the glossy photo she’d flashed earlier. I could be wrong, but I know this mountain like the back of my hand.
The truck rolls to a stop, its engine idling rough against the stillness.
"Here we are," I say, though the words feel hollow. The red flags are now slapping me in the face.
The cabin sits hunched against the tree line, dark and lifeless. No lights in the windows. No sign of recent tracks in the snow. Just a sagging porch and a number barely clinging to the wood near the door. I frown, scanning the place.
She doesn't move right away. She just sits there, her breath fogging up the window. Then she grabs her phone, staring at the screen, then at the cabin, then back at the mailbox like she’s trying to convince herself this can’t be the place. A gust of wind rocks the truck, rattling the loose shutters on the cabin, and she finally exhales, shoving her phone away.
"Are you sure this is it?" I ask, peering out at the place myself. It's got that abandoned look, the kind that gets under your skin.
She nods but doesn't speak. She steps out, slipping slightly before catching herself. I follow, standing guard as she approaches the mailbox. It's leaning, almost defeated by the weather or time. She squints at the numbers hanging on for dear life. Worry etches deeper lines in her otherwise smooth brow. She bites her lip, then trudges up to the porch and punches a code into the lockbox with what must be numb fingers.
I snag the key that it reveals and push open the door. It moans on its hinges, a sound that sets my teeth on edge. The city girl hovers close behind me, her breath coming out in puffs of white vapor.
"Jesus," I mutter under my breath.
It’s even worse on the inside.
The air is frigid, stale, and heavy with the scent of neglect. Roaches scatter across the floorboards as we step inside, and I can hear the skittering of rats somewhere in the shadows. A shiver runs down my spine—not from the cold, but disgust.
The place looks like nobody's cared for it in years. There's a layer of dust on every surface, and stains I don't want to think about are smeared across the walls. The furniture is sparse and decrepit; cushions torn, stuffing spilling out like innards.
City girl stands frozen, fretting, looking on the verge of freaking out. Her chest heaves, each panicked breath fogging up the frigid air. She’s rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the dismal cabin like she’s hoping it’ll morph into something livable if she just stares hard enough.
But it won’t.
The place looks more like a damn flop house than a rental, and it’s just as cold inside as it is out. So, no heat. And, no heat means no phone lines.
“No way,” I say, firmly.
She startles, her wide eyes snapping to mine. Then she starts babbling about mix-ups, refunds, how this can’t be right. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.
"Come on." My decision is made, instincts kicking in against the darkening sky outside. “Back to my place. You can make your calls there.”
"Your place?" There's a hitch in her voice, a tremble that doesn't quite mask the hope that flickers behind her doubt.
"Storm's rolling in fast." I glance out the cracked window at the gathering clouds, thick and heavy with the promise of even more snow. "Might get socked in for a few days, maybe more." I know it's not what she wants to hear, but better she knows upfront.
"Stuck? With you?" It's a whisper, almost lost in the creaking complaints of the dilapidated cabin.
"Only if you want to stay warm," I say. The offer hangs between us, a lifeline thrown across the widening gap of her uncertainty.
"Okay." She nods, just once, but it's enough. Enough for me to lead her back into the winter chill, away from the disaster that was supposed to be her sanctuary.
This is a terrible fucking idea. But I can’t stop myself from helping her. It’s that or leave her here to freeze to death. I can’t live with that on my conscience.
Yeah, this is a terrible fucking idea.
But as I watch her shiver, watch the last bit of fight drain from her shoulders, I know there was never another option.
