Page 1 of The Mountain Man’s Curvy Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #3)

Wes

The sharp rap on the front door jolts me so abruptly, hot coffee leaps from my mug like it's trying to escape the inevitable confrontation.

Droplets soak into my favorite red-and-black plaid flannel sleeve, burning slightly and leaving an annoying wet patch.

Grumbling, I shove my chair away from the battered kitchen table, coffee leaving a dripping trail behind me as I stalk toward the entryway of my cabin.

No one ever visits this deep into Black Bear Mountain.

Ever. That's precisely why I chose to hole up here.

I swing the heavy wooden door open with enough force to rattle its hinges. "Who the hell?—"

The rest of my scathing greeting evaporates instantly.

Standing in front of me is a woman—a decidedly attractive woman.

And she's smiling at me like sunshine after a blizzard. The sight is so surprising, I blink, momentarily stunned into silence. Her golden hair tumbles around her shoulders in waves that catch the sun’s rays perfectly, and her vibrant blue eyes practically dance with energy.

She’s dressed in a bright yellow dress that accentuates her curvy figure, hugging every lush, mouth-watering curve.

"Hi! You must be Wes." Her voice is cheerful, sweet like honey dripping from a spoon. Her smile widens, showing white, perfect teeth that could dazzle a dentist.

I scowl instinctively. "Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?"

Instead of looking put off by my gruff greeting, she just tilts her head slightly, a mischievous sparkle in those impossibly blue eyes. "I'm Daisy Whitmore, your mail-order bride. You did order me, didn’t you?"

My gut twists like it's been wrung out by rough hands.

The mail-order bride. I'd nearly forgotten about that insane idea, my late uncle’s bizarre and final condition to inherit the family lodge: marry someone or lose the inheritance forever.

A condition designed to torment me from beyond the grave.

I'd thought I’d gotten around it easily enough by filling out an obscure form on a questionable website in the hopes it was some kind of twisted joke. Apparently, the joke's on me.

Daisy shivers dramatically and rubs her bare arms. "Do you mind if I come inside? It's pretty chilly out here, Wes."

I hesitate, eying her warily. This woman looks as out of place standing on my porch as a bouquet of roses in the middle of a rugged mountain trail. But before I can argue further, she offers a teasing pout and bats her long lashes exaggeratedly. "Pretty please? I promise I'm harmless—mostly."

A reluctant chuckle threatens to slip past my lips. I bite it back, frowning deeper to cover it up, and reluctantly step aside. "Fine, come in. Just don't...touch anything."

She brushes past me into the cabin, her perfume wafting around me like an invitation to trouble. Vanilla, jasmine, and something unmistakably sweet—like freshly baked sugar cookies—assault my senses, stirring things that I'd buried under layers of solitude.

The living room of my cabin, usually dim and comfortably gloomy, suddenly feels lighter, warmer, and infuriatingly cheerful with Daisy in it.

She stands in the center, twirling slowly as she takes in my rough-hewn furniture, the fireplace surrounded by weathered stone, and my treasured moose head mounted above the mantle.

Her gaze settles on the worn sofa covered by a faded quilt my grandmother had stitched decades ago, and her expression softens in delight.

"Cozy," she declares brightly, spinning again, her yellow dress flaring slightly. "I absolutely adore this rustic vibe you've got going here. It's very…mountain man chic."

"Mountain man chic?" I growl, scowling deeper. "It's a cabin, not a boutique hotel."

She grins at my gruffness, clearly unaffected. "It’s perfect, actually. Quaint, charming, full of character. Just like its owner."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "Are you always this...chipper?"

"Only when I meet ruggedly handsome strangers who’ve ordered me online," she teases, winking playfully. "Speaking of which, our cabin now, right?"

I choke slightly, feeling my heartbeat speed up. "Whoa, hold on a second, Sunshine?—"

She beams. "Sunshine? That's adorable. Already got nicknames for me, Wes?"

"That was not—" I sputter. She laughs, a light sound like wind chimes dancing in a spring breeze, effectively cutting me off.

"Relax," she soothes, stepping closer. "We're both adults here. You needed a bride, and I was looking for a place to live. Sounds simple enough, right?"

"A place to live, huh?" I grunt skeptically. "What happened to your last place?"

"Let’s just say it became unlivable," she says, unfazed, setting her bulging, floral-patterned bag down next to the worn coffee table.

She moves around the room as though she belongs here, touching things lightly, examining my small collection of books on hunting, survival, and solitude.

Every now and then, she hums softly to herself, making it impossible to ignore her presence.

I try to maintain my irritation, but it’s getting increasingly difficult.

"You're taller than I imagined," Daisy says suddenly, breaking the silence and turning toward me, her eyes traveling appreciatively up and down my frame.

I cross my arms defensively. "And you're shorter."

She chuckles, stepping closer again, invading my personal space without hesitation. "That's okay. We fit better that way, don't you think?"

My pulse hammers loudly in my ears. "Listen, Daisy?—"

She waves a hand dismissively, cutting me off. "I know, Wes, strictly business. But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun while fulfilling your uncle’s condition."

Her playful tone sends heat shooting through my veins, warming my skin far more effectively than the coffee spill had earlier. "Define fun," I growl, trying to hold onto my grumpy demeanor.

She smiles softly, closing the distance between us until there's barely any air left between our bodies. Her gaze drops to my lips, lingering for a moment before rising back up to meet mine. "Oh, I think we both know exactly what I mean."

My mouth goes dry. The woman standing before me is pure trouble wrapped in sunshine, threatening to thaw every bit of ice around my heart.

Every instinct screams to run, to barricade myself back into comfortable solitude.

But her intoxicating presence anchors me in place, curious to see exactly how dangerous Daisy Whitmore can be.

God help me, I think with grim resignation, because Daisy Whitmore is exactly the kind of woman who could bring a mountain man to his knees.