My Mountain Man Muse Read online

  My Mountain Man Muse

  Olivia T. Turner

  Contents

  Copyright

  Become Obsessed with OTT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

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  Mountain Man Taken

  Copyright© 2019 by Olivia T. Turner.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, printing, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. For permission requests, email [email protected]

  Please respect the author’s hard work and purchase a copy. Thanks!

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, companies, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contains explicit love scenes and adult language.

  18+

  www.OliviaTTurner.com

  Edited by Karen Collins Editing

  Cover Design by Olivia T. Turner

  Become Obsessed with OTT

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  OBSESSED

  By Olivia T. Turner

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  When I look out my office window and see her in the next building, I know I have to have her.

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  Under, over, sideways—we’re going to be working together in every position.

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  Chapter One

  Lily

  “All right,” I mumble to myself. “First word, first word. Word. Word. Word. What’s a good word?”

  I tap the keyboard making a mess of the letters on the blank Word document until all I’ve written is GHAKJACKNCNLAC. For the fifth time, I hit the backspace button until there’s nothing on the screen but the damn cursor that won’t stop blinking.

  “Once upon a time?” I mutter to myself. No. Too fairy tale. There was a girl named… No. Too cheesy.

  “Arrghhh!”

  I slam the laptop closed in frustration as I explode out of my seat and go into the kitchen to make coffee for the sixth time today.

  I’ve been excitedly waiting for this week for months and now that I’m here, I can’t get started. Who knew that writing a book would be so damn hard?

  For years I’ve dreamed of renting a cottage in the mountains for a week to write a romance novel. I pictured it in perfect detail: the log cabin on a secluded mountain (check), a week off work to do nothing but write (check), a light snow falling outside as I sit under a blanket at the desk (check), and a finished amazing novel by the end of the week (what’s the opposite of a check?).

  It’s my second day here and I haven’t written one word. Yesterday, I sat in front of the blank page for twenty minutes trying to think of something, anything, to write until I got so frustrated that I spent the rest of the day holding my phone up by the window to try and get a signal so I could watch Netflix. Unfortunately, the Internet was working as well as my brain was.

  “Come on, Lily. All you have to do is write. It’s easy. Stephen King writes like twenty books a year.”

  I’m talking to myself as I walk around the kitchen in my slippers. This is going to be a long week.

  “What are you doing here?” I mumble when I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. “You should have gone to Vegas.”

  I get two vacation weeks a year, and I’ve wasted one on a boring cabin by myself with the world’s worst internet connection. What the hell was I thinking?

  With a sigh, I head back into the living room and open the laptop back up.

  Just start writing. Don’t think. Write.

  I sit down and start moving my fingers over the keyboard without thinking too much. There’s a story in my brain somewhere. I just have to let it pour out.

  Katie was having the worst day ever.

  Good. This is good. I have a character now and her name is Katie. Now, why is Katie having a bad day?

  Katie was having the worst day ever. She was super constipated.

  Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Come on. This is supposed to be romantic.

  Katie was having the worst day ever. Her mother just died and they were really close.

  Great, now I’m crying over an imaginary mother. Deleeeeetttte.

  Katie was having the worst day ever.

  What’s wrong Katie? What did they do to you?

  Katie was having the worst day ever. She lost her wallet and then…

  Yes! Yes!

  and then got bit by a penguin.

  Delete. Delete. Delete.

  I’m back to the flashing cursor on the blank page. Being a writer sucks.

  A little while later, I head outside for a walk. I read on Facebook once that walking helps creativity and I can use any help I can get. Actually, I didn’t read the whole article but it said it all in the headline.

  When I’m all bundled up, I step outside and breathe in the cool mountain air. The cottage is really cute, and would be perfect for a real writer. A wannabe writer, not so much.

  The snow is deep and powdery, and I sink to my knees on the first three steps.

  “That’s better,” I mumble as I get to the driveway. It was shoveled before I got here.

  The view is spectacular from up here. Truly magnificent. Every time I take a look at the sweeping panorama of snowy mountains and tall spruce trees it takes my breath away. There’s no other cottage in sight.

  It was terrifying to drive up here along the slippery roads, especially knowing there’s absolutely no one around. The description on the website said that it was secluded, and boy did they deliver. I haven’t seen anyone in two days.

  It’s a little scarier than I thought it would be. Especially at night.

  I’ve never been this far into the wilderness before, let alone by myself. I’ve always been a city girl, working in the concrete jungle. This real jungle stuff is not for me.

  Just stick to the road and you’ll be fine.

  I tighten my scarf and walk along the road. The snow is up to my ankles but the sun is out as it snows lightly. It’s a beautiful day.

  Okay. Think about the book. Think about Katie.

  Man, fuck Katie.

  I start to think about online shopping instead as I walk along the road. I’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes and am in the middle of planning my whole spring wardrobe when I pass some footprints in the snow.

  Bigfoot?

  I look
around in a panic and then exhale in relief when I see Woodland Boots marked into the footprint. It’s just a man.

  Oh shit. A man? I’m up here alone with a strange recluse mountain man?

  What if he’s an ax murderer? What if he’s a freak who likes to steal innocent city women and lock them away in a cabin? What if it is Bigfoot only he’s wearing a pair of boots?

  With my heart pounding, I turn around and walk back with a nervous spring in my step.

  It suddenly occurs to me that I never gave anyone the address of where I’m staying. My parents and none of my friends know where I am.

  This is all my brain’s fault. Why couldn’t you just figure out what happened to Katie?!?

  My mind starts darting to the worst possible scenarios, playing them in excruciating detail as I start jogging back to the cabin. The irony of my imagination finally working now that I prefer it to be shut off is not lost on me.

  When I picture a long-bearded man popping out of the woods behind me with an ax, I start running.

  I get about five feet before I hit a patch of ice and slip.

  “OW!” I scream as my ankle pops and I tumble to the ground. “Shit!”

  It hurts. It hurts a lot.

  After a minute of tears and feeling sorry for myself, I try to get up, but I can’t put any weight on it. It’s already swelling up bad.

  Katie was having the worst day ever? No. Lily was having the worst day ever.

  I’m cursing this stupid mountain, this stupid cabin, and this stupid unwritten book as I crawl along the snowy road. I’m cold and wet and miserable.

  And scared.

  If that ax murdering mountain man is behind me then I’m a sitting duck. I’ll never be able to run away now. Maybe I can roll down the hill to get away, but that doesn’t sound too appealing either.

  I pull out my cellphone and hold it up. Zero fucking bars.

  I have no boyfriend to come save me, so I don’t know who I was planning on calling, but either way, the phone is out of the question.

  I’ve traveled about twenty yards when my knees start burning and I’m exhausted. I turn and sit in the snow, crying to myself as I take a break.

  “Huh?” I gasp, whipping my head around when I hear a rustling in the trees behind me.

  It’s not Bigfoot.

  It’s the ax murder. He steps out of the forest holding an ax in one hand while he balances a huge log over his shoulder with the other.

  I swallow hard as I stare at him with unblinking eyes. His face is hard but not unpleasant to look at. He’s got a long beard and the type of cold dark eyes that pierce through skin and bone.

  His jaw tightens when he sees me sitting on the road, and we just stare at each other in shock. The only sound is the swaying of the trees in the wind.

  He drops the massive log with a thud, grips the ax and starts walking toward me.

  I just open my mouth and scream.

  Chapter Two

  Lily

  “Why are you screaming?”

  “You’re about to chop my head off!” I shout in a panic. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

  The ax murdering mountain man glances down at the ax in his hand and then tosses it onto the ground.

  Now’s my chance! He’s unarmed!

  I push away from him and start awkwardly log rolling down the not-so-steep hill. In my head, I pictured myself flying down the hill at a breakneck speed, but I’m just kind of flapping around like a half-dead fish.

  God, this is so embarrassing. I can’t even roll down a hill properly.

  Now, not only does my ankle hurt, but I’m full of snow and my elbows are going to be all bruised up.

  Maybe he’ll think I’m such a loser that he’ll go and find a cooler girl to kidnap and murder.

  “Are you trying to go somewhere?” he asks as my face hits the snow.

  “I’m escaping!”

  “You do realize I can walk faster than that, don’t you?”

  Oh, it’s no use! I’m a sitting duck. My ankle is killing, I can’t walk, I can’t write—I’m the easiest, most useless murder victim ever!

  I can already see my tombstone: Lily Sparks. Mediocre As Fuck.

  I roll to a pathetic stop and push myself up into a seated position. I’m crying as I straighten my leg that now feels like it’s been dipped in lava and then strapped to an exploding stick of dynamite.

  I’m feeling sorry for myself big time and I’m on the verge of an ugly cry. I’m going to die having never accomplished anything significant in my entire life. I’m going to die having never fallen in love. I’m going to die with a Harry Styles CD in the CD player of my car and everyone will know I’m a closet Harry Styles fan.

  The sobs start coming out and I’m hard on ugly crying when my murderer walks over and bends down in front of me.

  His brow furrows as he gently touches my ankle. “That’s bad. It looks like it’s broken. Can you move it?”

  He wants to know if I’m able to escape.

  “Yes,” I lie. “I can run really fast.”

  He gives me a strange look and for the first time, I take an actual look at his face. He’s good looking, but then aren’t serial killers usually good looking? I remember my mother’s words of caution in my head: “Sometimes, it’s the clean-cut good-looking ones that you really have to watch out for.”

  He’s good-looking, but he’s not clean-cut. He’s sporting a long brown beard that goes to his chest and medium-length brown hair under his gray woolen hat. If there was a director looking for a man to star in a Grizzly Adams reboot, this guy would definitely get the part.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks. “At the Miller cabin?”

  I swallow hard as I stare back at him. “You know it?”

  Oh, God. He knows where I’m staying. I’m toast!

  “Yeah, I know it. It’s always full of annoying city folk who won’t shut up.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a gulp. “City folk are the worst.”

  He looks at my Burberry coat that I got for half-off and frowns.

  “I’ll carry you back.”

  I shake my head in a panic. “Oh, you don’t have t—Oh! Okay!”

  He just bends down and scoops me up, and all of a sudden, I’m cradled in his arms like a leading lady in a romance book that a real writer wrote.

  The terrifying man clutches me in his awful—well, actually… this is quite nice.

  He has nice muscular arms and smells like pine trees and manliness. He’s holding me to his broad chest and I can feel the soothing beat of his heart against my tingling body. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  I can feel my cheeks starting to blush as I sneak a peek at his face. It’s so close to mine.

  He actually has really nice eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of brown like an old fine leather saddle.

  Oh! I can use that for my book!

  If I survive.

  My hero will have eyes the color of an old fine leather saddle and he’ll hold the heroine to his sexy chest as he carries her back to his house to ravage her on the kitchen tabl—

  “What are you looking at?”

  I come to and he’s giving me a strange look out of the sides of his eyes. I got a little carried away and didn’t notice that I was practically gawking at his handsome face and long beard that has large flakes of snow clinging to it.

  “I’m memorizing your face,” I say, giving him a stern look. “For the police sketch artist, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

  He chuckles as his grip on me tightens. “Thanks for the warning.”

  I nod, feeling a little silly. “You betcha.”

  He carries me all the way to the cabin and then looks at me expectantly as we arrive at the door.

  “What?” I ask, looking at him sideways.

  “The keys…”

  “Oh! Yeah!” I start rooting around in my jacket pockets, but they’re all empty. That’s the problem with designer jackets: no zippers to zip up the pockets. I find my car key
s, but not the key for the cabin.

  I clear my throat and look at him with my cheeks burning. “I seem to have misplaced them.”

  “When you were rolling around like a weirdo in that deep snow?”

  I nod. “Precisely.”

  He huffs out a breath and my mind races for options.

  My ankle is pretty busted up and it’s not like my book was going well anyway, so I might as well just go home and get my ankle checked.

  “I’ll just drive home.”

  “Your ankle is the size of a grapefruit,” he says, staring at me like I’m crazy. “How are you possibly going to drive home?”

  I look around, trying to come up with an idea, any idea.

  “Oh! With a stick.”

  “A stick?”

  “Yes!” I say confidently. “With a stick. I’ll use a long stick to press on the gas pedal.”

  He’s staring at me with a blank face. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

  My confident face withers into a frown. “It will work.”

  “It may,” he says with a nod as he thinks about it. “Or, you might drive off the road and get stuck in the middle of a snowstorm with only one working leg and no cell phone reception.”

  Gulp.

  “I guess you could use your stick as a cane and hike the rest of the twenty miles back into town. Oh, and you can also use it to fight off the wolves.”

  “Wolves?” I say in a shaky voice.

  “And bears.”

  “Bears?”

  Suddenly my plan seems as appetizing as a kale buffet.