Page 5 of Snowed In with her Mountain Men

CAMRYN

I woke to a beam of errant sunlight, slicing down from some high flung window. The cabin was cool, but not cold. The blankets my hosts had provided me were soft and thick, making me reluctant to leave my cocoon of warmth.

But I was the nosiest bitch in the universe, and nosy always won out.

On the couch across from me, Oakley was still sleeping peacefully.

I wasn’t sure exactly when he’d slipped downstairs, but I’d watched him feed the fire a few times with one eye open.

It could be he was keeping me warm, or maybe he just didn’t want me sleeping alone in a strange new house. Either way, it was sort of cute.

Not half as cute as him, though.

I pushed those thoughts away and stood up, moving slowly and silently so as not to wake him.

Oakley pursed his lips a few times, his goatee scrunching adorably beneath his strong, handsome nose.

His breathing didn’t change though, and I was able to slip from the living room and into the hallway without being detected.

And holy shit, the place was huge.

Gliding across the smooth planked floor in only my socks, I took in the entirety of what almost amounted to a whole log mansion.

The rooms were big, the hallways wide and spacious.

The giant yellow logs reflected natural light from windows choked with snow, while providing a soothing warmth from all directions.

I made my way from room to room, exploring the den, some sort of game room, and what looked to be an elaborate office.

Everything to do with the place was clean and modern, every turn and angle designed with an almost military precision in mind.

Decor was sparse, as it usually was when it came to men living amongst themselves.

What little there was, dripped with a utilitarian masculinity; everything from the animal head trophies mounted on the walls, to the standing gun rack, fishing rod holders, and the quintessential light fixture made up of a cluster of antlers.

“Damn.”

I chuckled to myself, expecting to pass a zebra skin rug or a stuffed grizzly bear at any moment.

Instead I wandered into what could only be a home gym, complete with a pair of treadmills, adjustable benches, and several racks of different sized free weights.

There were televisions in most rooms, too.

The sleek, dark rectangles were mounted cleanly and perfectly centered, and without the mess of hanging wires.

Yes, men definitely lived here. But they were neat and tidy men, which I had to admire.

The one commonality that all rooms shared however, were the terrible paintings.

As I wandered the cabin, I encountered a whole series of crooked landscapes and mountain backdrops.

Animals of sometimes questionable species or origins dotted the messy depictions of wilderness scenes.

Their features were never distorted too egregiously, but they always fell just short of feeling realistic or accurate.

Eventually I stood at the base of the staircase, where a single blown-up photo hung in a worn, wooden frame.

Four men in full military camo stood side by side in some faraway jungle, rifles hoisted, their grizzled faces shaded dark with grease paint.

I recognized Oakley and Ryder, and Jaxon immediately by his size.

The fourth man was markedly older, maybe twice their age and at least ten times as mean-looking.

He had stark white hair and piercing, deep-set eyes, with a line of matching white stubble dotted thickly across his sharply-angled jaw.

“That’s Sarge. He built this place.”

I jumped back and let out a strangled yelp. Oakley’s couch was not only empty, but he’d materialized beside me with a level of speed and silence that would make a ninja jealous.

“Holy shit!” I gasped, spreading one hand over my thundering chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

He didn’t answer, or even look my way. He just stood solemnly beside me, staring at the photo.

“You were in the military?” I eventually asked.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Marines.”

“That’s cool.”

“It was, and it wasn’t.”

Silently, I stared deeper into the photo.

The four of them weren’t just dirty, they were absolutely filth-smeared from head to toe.

Ryder’s fatigues were stained dark in some places, and Oakley had similar splatters.

Jaxon was wearing a hat, but a portion of it had been torn away.

Whatever had happened, they’d been through some shit.

The man called ‘Sarge’ however, looked the worst for wear. His trauma wasn’t physical though, it was something much deeper. Whatever he’d been through had taken years to sink in. Just staring into the photo, I could see it written in every line of his face.

“Where’s Sarge now?” I asked.

“Gone.”

I swallowed dryly. “ Gone gone?”

Oakley let out a long, deep breath. “Let’s just say we’re gonna need a dimly lit room and a Ouija board if we want to talk to him again.”

I coughed, and shot him a sideways smirk.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “That was dickish.”

“Nah. I had it coming.”

My response caused him to finally pull his attention away from the photo. He paused to regard me for a moment, before his face broke into a boyish grin. “Wanna see upstairs?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

Up the steps we went, our socks swishing quietly against the smooth, lacquered wood. It felt like we were sneaking around, although we weren’t. Like we’d just raided the fridge after a sleepover, and were carrying our plunder upstairs.

Oakley gave me a quick tour, where I encountered more rooms, and even more paintings. I noticed a good number of bedrooms in the upstairs hallway. All of the doors were closed, but his.

“Sorry,” he apologized, leading me in. “I should’ve just given you my room last night.”

He pointed to an immaculately-made, queen-sized bed that obviously hadn’t been slept in. Before I could agree or disagree, he began rummaging through a nearby dresser.

“Look, I appreciate you helping me, but…”

My voice died, mid-sentence. And that’s because a pair of impressively thick arms had lifted his shirt upward and off.

“But what?”

Oakley asked the question topless, as casually and comfortably as if he were talking to one of his friends.

But I was clearly smitten. Try as I might, my gaze was shamelessly locked on the muscles of his beautiful chest. Even as I stared, they worked in tandem to pull open a series of dresser drawers, until he found a suitable, thermal shirt.

“I—I don’t even know what I’m saying,” I admitted. “I guess I should just say thank you, for putting me up for the night.”

As he pulled the thermal shirt on, a few select parts of my body went into actual mourning. A smile popped out of the neck-hole.

“Welcome.”

“Thanks also for taking the other couch last night,” I finished. “I appreciate you watching over me.”

“Watch over you?” he mused. “Is that why you think I came down?”

I shrugged. “That’s the feeling I got.”

“Oh.”

In posing my next question, I made sure to study his expression very carefully.

“Did it have something to do with the tracks outside?”

Oakley froze, even just for a moment. His answer, when he gave it, took just a half-second too long.

“No.”

His poker face, if he had one, pretty much sucked.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Instinct told me he was probably lying, although I couldn’t fathom why. Maybe they were hunting something they shouldn’t be. Something illegal, or out of season, or—

“Hey,” he jumped in, extending a hand. “What do you say we sneak down to the kitchen and start breakfast?”

My stomach growled audibly, answering before I did. “Alright. Sure.”

“We need to hurry though,” Oakley groaned, wrinkling his nose. “If Ryder gets there first, he’ll insist on making his ‘specialty.’ Especially with a guest in the house.”

I chuckled at the face he made. “And what’s that?”

“Crunchy eggs.”