Page 48 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

I tuck my chin into the collar of my hoodie and hurry toward the car, my sneakers slipping slightly on the icy pavement. The cold seeps in, biting at my exposed skin. By the time I reach the driver’s side, my fingers are stiff, my nose stinging from the chill.

Teeth chattering, I fumble with the door handle, muttering under my breath. Next stop, the cabin—the cozy, heated cabin.

As I pull the door open, another gust of wind howls through the lot, kicking up a swirl of snow. I shiver hard.

The engine roars to life with the push of a button and I pull out onto the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

Chapter 2 - Ivy

The road stretches ahead, a gray ribbon winding through solid white.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, squinting as fat snowflakes start to pelt the windshield at an alarming rate.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever driven in or seen.

It’s not the pristine, powder-dusted slopes of Aspen I know, but a relentless, blinding flurry of white.

"Okay, Ivy, you've got this," I whisper to myself. My fingers tremble a bit as I reach for my phone—because unfortunately, I need it now—swiping it on with a thumb that feels too numb despite the car's heat blasting in my face.

The screen lights up with notifications—an avalanche in its own right. Twenty-seven missed calls. Two hundred and forty-five texts. Social media is a beast I'm not ready to tame, not now. Not ever, really. I let them blink and beep into oblivion. Miss me with that drama, thank you.

I pull up my navigation app and punch in the destination, then toss the phone in the passenger seat.

Concentrate. Focus on the road.

But the sky is dumping snow faster now, thick flakes sticking to the windshield faster than the wipers can clear them. The headlights catch the swirling flurries, making it feel like I’m driving through a tunnel of static. Or I’ve just entered warp speed.

My phone continues to buzz, a string of notifications lighting up the screen. Thankfully it does nothing to stop the robotic voice crackling over the Bluetooth. In one mile, turn left.

“Yeah, if I make it that far,” I mutter, gripping the wheel tighter.

The tires crunch over the snow-covered pavement, the sound creeping up my spine, needling at my nerves. Every tap of the brakes is a careful dance between control and panic.

Another gust of wind slams against the car, rocking it just enough to spike my pulse.

"Stay steady," I whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it true.

The next notification buzzes—then cuts off mid-vibration. The GPS voice stutters, then goes silent.

I frown. "What the?—"

Glancing at the screen, I see the dreaded No Service indicator blinking in the corner. My stomach knots. No notifications. No GPS. Just me, the snow, and a whole lot of winding road, with no idea what turn to take next.

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.