Chapter 1
Harper
Chester the moving truck fishtails again, and I white-knuckle the steering wheel. Yes, I name vehicles. And coffee makers. And particularly stubborn desk lamps.
My ex used to hate that. He said it was childish. But he's not here to complain anymore. The thought sends a familiar flutter of anxiety through my stomach, but I push it away. He can't find me here. Not in this tiny town at the end of the world.
"Come on, Chester," I mutter, willing the ancient heater to work harder against the Montana snowfall that was definitely not in the forecast. "We can do this. Think warm thoughts. Think... Pride and Prejudice, cozy libraries, that scene where Mr. Darcy walks across the misty field..."
Another curve lies ahead on the mountain road, barely visible through the swirling white. My heart pounds as the back end of the truck slides sideways, and I fight to remember everything I'd read about winter driving. Turn into the skid. Don't brake suddenly. Pray really, really hard. Though I'm pretty sure Jane Austen never wrote a scene about proper snow navigation.
The truck comes to a stop, half in a snowbank, and I let out a shaky laugh. Pine trees loom on either side of the road like silent guardians, their branches heavy with snow. The wilderness stretches endlessly in every direction, beautiful and terrifying and nothing like Seattle's carefully manicured parks.
"Well, this is just perfect." I check my phone. No signal, of course. The universe clearly has a sick sense of humor.
I pull my bright yellow sweater tighter and squint through the windshield at the sign barely visible through the snow: "Welcome to Wylde Mountain, Population 2,187." Below it, someone has crossed out the numbers and written "2,186 - Earl moved to Florida." The sign's weathered wood and hand-painted letters already feel more like home than my sterile apartment ever did.
"Sorry, Earl," I say, "but you're about to be replaced."
I try to restart Chester. The engine makes a sound that it definitely shouldn’t. Great. Just great. The keys to my new life, my bookstore, are waiting for me in Wylde Mountain.
When I signed the papers over Zoom two days ago, the realtor didn’t hide herdubious look, like she couldn't believe anyone would want that dusty old place. But she didn't see what I see: shelves lined with stories, aisles full of escape, reading nooks where people can spend as much time as they like. A place where I can finally be myself.
If I ever get there.
The smart thing would be to stay put and wait for help. But I didn't get this far by being smart. I got here by being stubborn enough to finally pack up my life at 2 AM, leave a note on the kitchen counter, and drive until Seattle was just a memory in my rearview mirror.
I grab my light coat from the passenger seat and pull it on. If I can just get Chester unstuck, I'll be drinking hot chocolate in my new home within the hour, and maybe finally crack open that collector's edition of "Rebecca" I've been saving for a special occasion. How hard can it be to push a three-ton truck out of a snowbank?
The bitter cold hits my face like a shock as I step out. The snow is already halfway up my calves, soaking through my jeans. The silence up here is absolute. No traffic, no people, no anything. Just me and the mountains and endless snow.
I make my way to the back of the truck, plant my hands on the cold metal, and push. Nothing happens except a spectacular view of my boots sliding in the snow. "Come on!" I push harder, my muscles straining. "Move, you stubborn—"
A deep voice rumbles behind me. "That's not gonna work."
I spin around so fast I nearly slip. Through the falling snow, I make out a massive shape that can only be described as a mountain made human. The man has to be well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders stretching his dark coat, and a beard that would make a lumberjack jealous.
My heart does a little skip-jump that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with the way he fills up the space around him, wild and rugged as the landscape itself.
"I, uh..." My brain short-circuits. They definitely didn't make them like this back in Seattle. My romance novels did not prepare me for this level of mountain man intensity.
He steps closer, and I catch a glimpse of striking blue eyes under a worn baseball cap. A scar runs along his jaw, disappearing into his beard, and his hands are rough, calloused. Everything about him screams danger, but not the kind I've been running from. A different kind. The kind that makes my pulse race for entirely new reasons.
"You're gonna get yourself killed out here," he says, his voice gruff but somehow warm, like whiskey over gravel. "Where are you headed?"
I lift my chin, trying to appear more confident than I feel. "Wylde Mountain. I bought the old bookstore."
Something flickers across his face – surprise, maybe, or annoyance. "You're the city girl who bought Anderson's place?"
"I prefer 'future successful business owner,'" I say, forcing a bright smile. "I'm Harper James."
He doesn't smile back, but something in his eyes softens just a fraction. "Dean McKnight. And you picked one hell of a day to move to my mountain."
His mountain? Last time I checked, mountains weren't exactly private property. But arguing with the only person who's shown up to help probably isn't the smartest move. "Would you believe the weather app said sunny and mild?"
"Weather app." He scoffs the words like they're personally offensive. "First rule of mountain living – don't trust anything that needs satellites to work." His eyes scan the road behind me, then the darkness ahead. "Second rule – don't drive a moving truck through a snowstorm."
"I'll be sure to write these down in my 'Mountain Life for Dummies' notebook." The words slip out before I can stop them. I blame it on the cold. Or those eyes. Definitely the cold.
