Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I try again, and I’m able to sit up slowly and lean against the rough hewn pine headboard to take inventory once the room stops spinning. I’m still in my hiking outfit. It’s a little dusty but otherwise holds no clues as to what happened to me. There’s a bandage taped to my head. Panic makes me want to run to the nearest mirror to take a look, but my skull threatens to split if I try to swing my feet over the edge of the bed, so I sag back into the pillows instead.
My braids have a few pine needles in them. I brush these off onto the shaggy brown rug covering the rough pine floor. All this pine and plaid tells me I’m in a mountain cabin. And that fits. I’m on Bad Bear mountain.
It comes back to me slowly: my parents urn, my brother Bentley. Where is Bentley? We were going to hike up to throw the ashes off and fulfill our parents' wishes. The last thing I remember is us getting out of our rental car. When I try to remember past that, pain flashes through my head, bad enough to make my eyes water.
At some point, I hit my head, and someone bandaged it. Bentley? Or the owner of this cute cabin? The room feels kinda homey for a rental. There are two closed doors, one at the foot of the bed, one and one to the left, opposite the single window and next to the big pine wardrobe. The wardrobe’s door hangs open, revealing a row of big plaid shirts hung on one side and a few neat piles of folded clothes on the shelves. Unless mountain cabin rentals now come with complimentary plaid shirts, this is someone’s home.
I can’t do any more sleuthing until I can move, but there are worse places to recover. This room is inspiring me to design a new Christmas line for my company, GoddessWear™. The theme will be mountain chic. I’m thinking plaid pajamas, cozy nightgowns, and fluffy slippers. Cute little brown bears are definitely going to be making an appearance.
The big rough-hewn door in front of me creaks open, and in walks the most stunning man I've ever seen. He’s a giant-sized Viking with buzzed blond hair and a beard raging out of control. His worn t-shirt is stretched over swollen pecs, and his biceps look like they're about to burst out of the sleeves. One deep flex of those bulging muscles, and his shirt will give up and fall to the floor, leaving him topless. And that would be a tragedy.
Not.
I’d get to examine the deep tan of his skin and the beautiful colors of his full sleeve tattoos. The ink above his elbow depicts a honey bee and a big brown bear.
Again with the bears. I love it when people stick to a theme.
“You're awake,” the Viking rasps. His blond brows form a surly line. He looks grumpy. But I've dealt with grumpy ever since my mom fell in love with a big Hollywood executive type, moved us to Hollywood Hills, and stuck me with a cruel stepbrother. I meet grouchy with sunshine every time.
“Hey.” I give a little wave and flinch when the movement jostles my head.
The Viking prowls into the room, his movements fluid for a man of his size. He crouches next to the bed, which puts his head even with mine. His grey eyes pierce me. “How you feeling, babygirl?”
Babygirl? Um, wow. Okay. That’s cool. I don’t know this guy, but he can call me babygirl anytime. And I do mean anytime.
He is every shade of big, brawny and beautiful. His sheer masculinity has my ovaries dropping eggs faster than a slot machine that just hit jackpot. I literally hear the bells going off–
No, wait. That’s my headache. My hand rises to touch my forehead.
“Careful,” he cautions, catching my wrist and turning over my hand. I have a few pieces of gravel still stuck to my palm. He brushes these off with gentle fingers.
Heat shoots through my body. Oh my.
“Are we acquainted?” My tone is a little too hopeful. Maybe Bentley and I finished the memorial ritual, and he left me to it, and I wandered into the little town of Bad Bear, had a cocktail at the olde-timey-looking bar, and met this Viking. Maybe he wooed me with descriptions of his cute curtains, and I accepted his invitation to get an intimate look at his bedroom.
And now it's the morning after. But if we had dirty, passionate sex, how did I get my head injury? My body wouldn't be sore like I fell off a cliff, it would be sore in a different, more delicious way. So maybe we haven't done it. Yet.
“What do you remember?” He searches my eyes carefully.