TEMPTED BY THE MOUNTAIN MAN NEXT DOOR

“Yes, Janet. I just got to the rental cabin. Uh-huh… I know, Janet. Uh-huh… Yes, I promise. The final manuscript will be in your inbox by the end of the weekend. Okay, you too. Bye.”

I drop my phone onto the seat beside me; the click echoing the lead weight settling in my stomach. 

Two days. Fifteen thousand words. 

The sheer impossibility of it makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel. 

How in the actual fuck am I supposed to pull this off? 

Your guess is as good as mine. 

Maybe, just maybe, some kind of cosmic intervention will descend, gifting me the perfect ending. That's the only damn hope I've got right now.

This remote cabin, tucked away in the woods, is supposed to be my magic wand, the key to unlocking the writer within who seems to have gone on an extended vacation. 

My first two novels—they practically wrote themselves, the words flowing like a damn river. 

But this third one—this one has been a monumental pain in the ass from the get-go. 

I just haven't connected with the story, the characters feel like strangers, and my publisher has already granted me two extensions. 

Janet's thinly veiled threats still ring in my ears. 

You're on thin fucking ice, Miss Fields. Lucky for you, you're such a damn good author. 

The 'lucky for you' part feels particularly ominous.

Here's hoping the mountain air and the promise of solitude can kick-start my muse before Janet ships me off to writer's purgatory and my new career as a romance author is over before it ever truly began.

I yank my suitcase from the backseat, the plastic wheels bumping and protesting against the gravel as I trudge up the short driveway to the front porch. 

Each wooden plank creaks under my shoes as I climb the porch steps. 

The cabin itself is just as quaint and adorable as the pictures online promised. 

The owner, who I’d only corresponded with via email, had mentioned he lived in the cabin next door—a detail I had given little thought to at the time. This secluded spot, nestled amongst the trees, felt like exactly what I needed.

I pause for a moment, taking in the breathtaking scenery. The air is crisp and clean, and the silence is profound. 

This cabin is perfect.

I find the key tucked under the welcome mat, just as he’d said, and as I reach for the lock, a movement to my right catches my eye.

Emerging from the dense woods is the most overwhelmingly large man I’ve ever seen. 

My breath hitches. 

I practically trip over my fucking suitcase, instinctively grabbing the doorframe to steady myself. 

He’s jogging, shirtless, and every inch of his skin seems to ripple with tattooed muscle, slick with sweat that catches the sunlight. 

Instantly, I want to taste the salt on his skin, the raw maleness of him. 

A damp heat pools immediately between my thighs as I watch the play of his muscles with each powerful stride.

My heart slams against my ribs like a trapped bird as he jogs up the path to the cabin right next to mine. Holy fuck. He’s the owner.

Instead of continuing to the other cabin, he pivots, heading straight towards me.

He slows to a stop at the edge of my porch, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. He wipes a thick forearm across his sweaty brow, his dark eyes raking over me with an intensity that makes my knees feel weak. There’s something raw and magnetic in his gaze.

“Clover?” His voice is a low, gravely sound that seems to vibrate right through me.

I manage a nod, my throat suddenly dry. “You must be Jackson.”

A slow smile touches his lips. “That's right. Didn't expect you quite yet.” His eyes linger on my face, then rake over my body.

“Well,” I say, suddenly shy under his gaze, “...surprise.”

He takes a step closer, running a hand through his damp hair. “Welcome to the mountain, Clover.”

Well, this writing retreat just got a whole lot more complicated. And a hell of a lot more interesting.