BUCKED:The Mountain Man’s Babies(27)

Claimed By The Mountain Man





A Modern Mail-Order Bride Romance





"Everly," he growls. "I'm claiming you as mine, right here, right now."



SILAS



I want a wife who knows what it means to live off the grid, cook my food, and keep my bed warm.



In exchange, I'll give her a lifetime of happiness in the form of my c*ck.



But d*mn, Everly's more than I bargained for and I don't think she has any idea what it means to be mine. Hell, I wanted a wife, but I'm not sure I know how to live with a woman.



EVERLY



Did I expect to be a mail-order bride at twenty-two? No. But honestly, my life could be a helluva lot worse. The agency says this Alaskan mountain man is rich, hot as heck, and willing to pay off my student loans.



I'm crossing my fingers he's everything I signed up for.



But I may be a little over my head. Mostly because I'm marrying a stranger and also because I've never dated. Period.



Clearly I have no clue how to be a wife ... but it's too late to back out now.



*WARNING: This story features a mountain man who knows exactly what he wants. And how he wants it. Don't one-click if you want a tame mail order bride story ... this is a classic Frankie Love romance ... steamy as hell with a HEA.





Prologue





Grabbing the Prosecco from the fridge, Everly finds three mason jars, pops the cork, and divvies up the bubbly. The goal tonight is to forget the reality of the situation she and her two best friends have found themselves in.

Homeless. Jobless. Boy-less.

Champagne will certainly help the cause.

“Is that the last bottle?” Delta asks, as Everly balances all three glasses in her hands and walks back into the living room.

Everly moans as she delivers the drinks. She’s wearing her hair in a messy bun and her nerd-girl glasses contribute to her low-key appearance. But tonight she isn’t acting low-key. Tonight she is dramatic and drunk.

A dangerous pairing for any twenty-two-year-old woman.

“The state of my checking account was so depressing I was like, eff it, and bought two more bottles,” she says.

“That’s what I love about you, Everly,” Delta snorts. “You’re just so damn responsible.” She takes the glass from Everly’s hand and sets it on the coffee table before screwing the cap back on a bottle of eco-friendly nail polish. She’s just painted daisies on her big toes, as if declaring herself the ultimate flower child. Her long hair and boho dress complete the look. She’s a vegan, through and through, and living in Portland, Oregon makes her lifestyle easy.

Clinking the rims of their glasses, Everly takes a long sip. “I know, it’s hard to be such a put-together adult, but somebody has to do it.” She smirks, knowing she’s anything but put-together.

“No, but like, for reals, what are we going to do?” Amelia, who is braiding her hair, asks. She’s in ratty sweats and a tank top, but she gets a pass considering Derrick, her boyfriend of four years, just broke up with her. “I mean, all of us were legit counting on staying at Derrick’s summer house for the next three months. Now we’re going to get kicked out of here in a week. Then what?”

“Calm down. It’s all going to work out,” Everly tells her, not believing the words herself, but knowing Amelia needs the affirmation—considering she’s the one recovering from an unexpected break-up.

Everly falls onto the couch, squeezing between her two best friends. They all take drinks of the bubbly, each lamenting their own personal hell.

They aren’t exactly on top of the world. And they feel deceived. The entire universe led them to believe that if they went to college they would be grown-ups. But here they are, all three of them a week out of Oregon State College, with no job prospects, no boyfriends, and—apparently—no housing.

“This sucks,” Amelia says, her head falling on Everly’s shoulder. “Why didn’t a career counselor ever mention the fact that a Fine Arts degree wouldn’t help me? All it did was teach me that I’m more of a hobbyist in terms of creating visual masterpieces. Like, I can legit scrapbook, but that isn’t a job.”

“Um, sweetie,” Delta says, “my degree is in Hospitality. There are literally no jobs for me.”

“You can be a hotel desk clerk,” Everly suggests.

“Yeah, except I didn’t need a degree for that, and it won’t offer me health insurance or pay my student loans. It’s not realistic.”

“I know,” Everly says. “Even if I sold a story to some magazine, I’d make what—fifty bucks if I was lucky? And I can’t afford to sit here and write the next great American novel. That won’t pay any of the bills.”