Engaged to the Mountain Man Read Online Mia Brody

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I think again of his voice and the way it was raspy over the phone. Hearing it made my stomach flutter. Could it be possible that we could one day grow to love each other? Would we have a warm and happy marriage?

As I think the thought, my suitcase hits a pothole, and the latch gives way, sending my clothing all over the muddy road.

I make a pitiful noise of defeat. I could spend the next hour trying desperately to gather all of my clothes that the wind is flinging in every direction. Or I could make it to that cabin in the distance. The one with the lone porch light on.

I thought I was close to Rafael’s cabin when I began at the base of the mountain, but this thunderstorm has my sense of direction going haywire.

My teeth are chattering, so I opt for the cabin. I can always send Rafael out to gather my things later. Maybe it would be good penance for the man given the way he abandoned me at the airport.

Part of me hopes something important kept him from seeing me while another part hopes that nothing bad has happened to him.

Thunder cracks again as I pat the carry-on bag over my shoulder. At least, I had the good sense to keep a small bag on my person with a cellphone that works in the States and a few essentials like my passport.

I pick up my pace scurrying to the porch. I bang on the door as hard as I can with my fist when I don’t see a bell. All I want at this point is a hot meal and dry clothes.

I’ve been traveling all day, across many time zones. I’m exhausted and if I’m being honest, a little hurt that Rafael didn’t care enough to show up.

As if I summoned him, the door swings open and there stands a big mountain man. I recognize those piercing blue eyes from the photo I’ve seen of him. My blood boils and I point a shaking finger at him as I manage to grit out, “You never met me at the airport.”

Rafael gasps like I’ve struck him. “You’re the woman from the con.”

“No, it’s Velkan. Like a soda can.” I stress the name of my country slowly. OK, I’m not normally a jerk to people. But standing here in the pouring rain, shouting to be heard over the tempest outside, well, I can be forgiven for being a little bit angry.

“If you were going to make up the name of a country, it shouldn’t sound so damn close to Vulcan,” he spits out, as if he has any right at all to be upset. What is it with this man? First, he’s rude on the phone. Now, he’s rude in person.

I push past him and march into the cabin. Manners dictate that I should wait for an invitation, but this man is my fiancé, so really, I’m saving him the trouble of inviting me in. I turn to him and scowl, feeling my cold, wet dress cling to my back.

He doesn’t offer me a towel. Doesn’t even seem upset that I’m standing here dripping on his hardwood floors and tracking in mud. “If you were going to con me, you should pick a country name that at least sounds believable.”

“What is it with you Americans and your rudeness?” I brush the fringe from my eyes. Why do I have to think that his eyes are as clear as the lake behind Father’s castle? Why do I have to notice the way he smells like cedarwood and spice and home?

“If there’s a country you don’t know the name of, then it mustn’t exist. So typical.” I scowl back at him, suddenly aware that he’s shirtless. He’s shirtless and so very built. His body looks like it was carved from stone. Except that one arm is twisted up, at a strange angle. One that can’t be natural and for a second, I soften. Maybe he has a reason for being a little bit grumpy.

He takes a deep breath like he’s fighting for composure, and I let my gaze skate lower. The way his jeans are unbuttoned, I can see that happy trail of hair beneath his belly button before it disappears further down. The sight has me strangely aware of my body, of the way my cold nipples are straining against the fabric of my dress.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he grumps. He yanks a phone from the pocket of his jeans. One arm moves easily and freely. It’s the one he uses to tap the screen.

I take a step closer and peer over his shoulder. Or I try to. I’m much too short to manage looking over a giant’s shoulder, so I end up peering around his beefy arm instead. He’s so big, solid, and warm.

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