Goldie and the Three Bears: 50 Loving States, Wisconsin

By Theodora Taylor

Find out why readers are WARNING other readers about this book....

"Give me a glass of ice, cold water PLEASE for this repeat read! People, you will never and I mean NEVER visualize Goldilocks in the same way after reading Theodora Taylor's take. I wish I could give it 10 HOT smexy stars! -Dee, Amazon Review

One calls me mija. One calls me baby. One makes me call him....

What would you do if you found yourself stuck in the wilderness, with no one to turn to but three large and extremely hot football players?

Well, that's my situation.

And I'm not sure I can handle these three bears.

Can you?

READER WARNING: This Ruthless Fairytale is BLAZING HOT. Please do not one-click without the proper...ahem...support for any feelings that might arise.

Also please note, this is not a shifter romance. It is an extremely hot contemporary romance, featuring three football player leads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodra Taylor
• Release date: May 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942167440

Book preview

Bears

Chapter One

GINA

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Chevy Nova starts sputtering about one hundred and fifty miles before I make it to Duluth. Then it jerks to a stop with a sickening metallic gurgle.

I curse when I climb out of the car. There’s gray smoke spilling from the hood, and it smells like old rust and burned oil. I’m no mechanic, but I’m sensing it will take more than a walk for gas to get me off this two-lane highway.

This extremely remote two-lane highway.

With nothing but dark woods on either side of it.

An icy wind blows as I look into the carless distance and think about the worldwide coronavirus pandemic that has so many people scared. I’m alone out here. More alone than I’ve ever been.

Panic descends, threatening to overwhelm me. I knew I couldn’t do this. Knew I couldn’t escape on my own. Tommy was right about me. I’m too stupid and weak to do anything—

It doesn’t matter what you think you can do, another voice reminds me, quiet and desperate. You have to do this.

Yes, I have to do this.

I shake off all that fear and force myself to be grateful I made it this far. I’d only been able to withdraw five hundred dollars from my bank account before I left Georgia. That was enough to get me all the way to Wisconsin. So, mission almost accomplished.

I used my bank card to buy gas in Madison, which was risky for sure. Tommy was probably monitoring our shared bank account to track me, or he would have closed it as soon as I disappeared. I’d hoped I was close enough to my final destination for it to be safe to make one transaction. If everything had gone as planned, I would have been across the Canadian border before the charges even registered on my bank account.

But now my only means of transportation is spitting smoke. Dammit.

I place a hand on top of my stomach and try to stay calm.

I’m going to get us out of this, I promise the baby growing inside of me. I whisper the same words now as I did a few weeks ago when I peed on a stick and saw two thin blue lines.

Zipping up the hoodie I bought at that Madison gas station over my turquoise blue ribbed bodycon dress, I start forward with a determined stride. Walking a mile or two to find a mechanic is a small price to pay for our freedom.

Only it isn’t a mile or two. At least I don’t think it is. I left my phone along with most of everything else I owned back at the house in Jonesboro for fear of Tommy using it to track me. But I’m pretty sure after what feels like an hour of walking that I’ve gone more than a couple of miles.

It was technically a good idea to stick to back roads whenever possible, so there would be less chance of a surveillance camera picking me up. But this one might be a little too backcountry. In the time I’ve been walking, not one car has passed by. Also, it’s getting dark….

I eye the setting sun with a fearful heart.

Something rustles in the woods.

I snap my head toward it. What was that?

Okay, time to turn back, I decide, reversing direction. Better to wait in the car where wolves and bears and back road murderers can’t get me than out in the open.

I pick up my pace, but after another huge chunk of time passes, I’m trudging. My yellow espadrille wedges match nearly everything in my wardrobe and make my calves look spectacular. But they are not ideal for hours of walking. My entire body aches and my legs have gone wobbly like they’re just looking for a reason to give out.

Despite that, I keep trudging along, determined to get back to my car. Only to jerk to a sudden stop when I see the sign nailed to a tree, bright and red:

PRIVATE ROAD. PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ONE ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT.

A lump of horror rises in my throat. That sign wasn’t there before. I would have remembered it. That means I’ve walked past where I left the Chevy Nova.

Oh, God… Someone must have taken my car. I’m stranded. Lost and stranded.

I look back to the quiet road. I know I passed a small town called Sweet Lake in the other direction. Maybe about ten to fifteen miles back. But after nearly a full day of driving and hours of walking, I don’t have it in me to hike that far.

I shift back to the sign. Ominous and forbidding. But at this point, I can’t see any other choice. The sun’s almost fully set, and I have no idea where my car is.

Teeth chattering against the freezing night wind, I make my way down the dirt road the sign declared forbidden.

The sun sets, and the moon rises in front of me as I walk down a path just wide enough for a car. Relief fills me when I finally reach a two-story cabin. Relief and apprehension…

The house isn’t completely terrible; I admit after a few moments of observing it under the moonlight. It’s made of cute little logs and features a gabled front porch with a swing hanging down. It kind of has what I used to call cozy potential back when I would help my friends at Emory decorate their dorm rooms for free.

But other than those cute touches, everything else about the house is stark. Plain front door. No smoke coming out the chimney. No lights inviting weary travelers off the road. No sign whatsoever of who might live here.

The lack of personal effects combined with the cold Wisconsin night makes the cabin seem almost as ominous and forbidding as the sign at the end of its road.

But it’s not like I have a huge selection of places to spend the night.

Taking a deep breath, I walk up the three steps to the door and knock. My heart feels like it’s about to thunder straight out of my chest as I wait for whoever owns the cabin to come to the door….

No answer.

My heart sinks. But I try again, this time knocking a little louder.

Still no response.

I try the knob. Of course, it’s locked.

This is probably somebody’s summer vacation cabin. And unlike me, who left her car unlocked at the side of the road with the keys still inside it, most people aren’t idiots.

This can’t be happening. I barely made it through last night when I was sleeping in my car with a blanket. There’s no way I’ll survive a night in the woods. With whatever animals living out here in the middle of nowhere.

But the slim windows on either side of the door look old. So maybe…

I unzip my hoodie and wrap it around my wrist. Then, with a silent apology to whoever owns this place, I punch my fist through the left side window. It shatters on the first hit. Thank goodness. I carefully stick an arm through the now empty pane to unlock the door.

It’s a latch handle—another reason to send up some thanks. With just a little maneuvering, I’m in.

I find a light switch on the wall, flip it on…and nothing.

This must really be a vacation cabin if the electricity’s turned off. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. No electricity means no current occupants. But save for the shafts of moonlight shining through the windows, the cabin’s pitch black.

I’m not loving the thought of moving around in the complete dark, but the pinching hunger in my stomach reminds me to be brave. I have to find something to eat. For the life growing inside of me.

I touch my way across the room, knocking into what feels like big, heavy furniture and smooth wooden walls until I come to a swinging door.

Thankfully, the kitchen is much brighter than the living room. Its entire back wall seems to be made out of glass, and the moonlight streaming through the windows is enough to guide me to the refrigerator. And this time, I easily avoid the room’s primary piece of furniture, a circular table. It has four chairs situated around it, so maybe this cabin belongs to a family.

It was always just me and my mom growing up in Atlanta, and most of my school friends were in the same single mom boat. But when I went to Emory, I’d encountered girls who did things like meeting up with their families at vacation cabins on the weekends. Cabins that might have looked like this. Who knows, even though we were attending the same school, those nuclear family girls lived in a different world from me.

If they had won the Princess Georgia beauty queen title, that would have been enough. They never would have lowered themselves to stripping to make up the difference between the scholarship money that the pageant provided and their real living expenses. Those nuclear family girls had dads who hadn’t abandoned their mothers. And their mothers weren’t dead.

Those girls were protected and loved. They had choices. None of them would have dated Tommy, much less stayed with him after the first slap….

A familiar mix of regret and shame washes over me. Why did I believe him so easily? Why hadn’t I listened to my best friends, Cynda and Billie, who’d worried from the start that he was too controlling? Why had I insisted on pretending to myself and others that I was living in a fairy tale when it was really a nightmare?

But that’s enough dwelling on the past, I decide. I’ve got to focus on the future for the sake of my baby. So I shake off the many regrets and make my way over to the refrigerator.

It’s a nice one—stainless steel and enormous. But my shoulders droop with disappointment when I find it empty. Figures, considering there’s no electricity. I should have thought of that before getting my hopes up.

Dumb, dumb, I’m so dumb. Sometimes it feels like me and the girl who made it into Emory are two totally separate people.

I check the cabinets. Nothing there except plates. But then, jackpot! When I open the double pantry, I find all manner of dry goods: beans, canned vegetables, and several packages of pasta. Not only that, when I turn on the tap, water comes out. Hot water, which means there must be a gas heater in play somewhere on the property.

I only need one more thing to make this work.

Please let it be a gas stove, I beg whoever is up there, watching over me.

And…jackpot number two, it totally is! I grab the pasta and a saucepan from the cabinet below the range. Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m plating up the first home cooked meal I’ve had in…

Wow, I think it might be years. Tommy liked to eat out at restaurants. And I was expected to be at the door, ready and waiting for him whenever he came off his shift, dressed to slay in full hair and makeup.

Let me tell you, after years of restaurants and a week of scarfing gas station food in my car, eating a meal I made at a kitchen table feels like a dream come true. The only things that could make this dinner any better would be some overhead light and a nice glass of wine.

Not that I can have wine these days.

The thought of the baby growing inside of me takes some delight out of eating my first proper meal in years. I’d always dreamed of having a child, but not with Tommy. And not like this.

I pause, even though I’m only halfway done with my plate of spaghetti. I’m no longer hungry, and suddenly the day is catching up with me. I feel tired and weak. So, so weak.

But I can’t take good food for granted. And who knows when I’ll get my next meal? I force the rest of the spaghetti down, then rinse off the plate. There’s a dusty bottle of dish soap but no dishwasher or drying off towel that I can discern.

I do the best I can and leave the plate to dry on the counter. I’ll put it back tomorrow morning…and figure out how to make it the rest of the way to Canada without a car.

But tonight I’ve got to get some rest. It’s been a week since I slept in a proper bed.

I go back through the living room and feel my way around until I come to a hallway. I open the first door to find a larger than expected room. If I’m reading the room’s shadow play right, there’s a gigantic bed standing against the back wall.

Okay, I’m sure there’s a bathroom somewhere in here, but it feels all kinds of wrong to not only break into a cabin but also make myself right at home in what’s obviously the master bedroom.

I close the door and open the next one, hoping for a smaller bedroom. But the second room is the first one’s complete opposite. Super small, like a storage space with just enough room for an extra-long cot. I’m not choosy at this point, but there’s definitely no bathroom in here.

Okay, I’ll try the last door, and if that’s a bust, I’ll just have to tamp down my guilt and go back to the enormous master bedroom.

But to my pleasant surprise, the room behind door number three is perfect. Regular queen-sized bed. A small bathroom with a door I can close. Please let there be hot water in here too, I beg whoever’s watching over me again.

And I must be on a roll. The shower turns on with no problem, and after a few moments, the water warms up. I waste no time, stripping out of my grimy dress and jumping into the shower. God, the hot water feels so good on my skin. It makes me wish I could get my hair wet too.

But washing and conditioning my hair in the dark probably isn’t a good idea either. Pretty much the only thing I was allowed to keep from my time at Magic Peaches after Tommy made me quit was my long blond weave. It makes me look and feel as beautiful as Beyonce, but washing the golden extensions is a job. Plus, all the products I’d bought to maintain my weave at my last appointment were in the car that disappeared.

With a sigh, I grab the first bottle my hands find after fumbling around the dark shower. Maybe it’s body wash. Maybe it’s shampoo. Whatever it is, it smells good. Like pine needles and wood, same as the cabin. I gratefully soap up my body, then rinse off, careful to keep my hair out of the water as I do.

After stepping out of the shower, I plait my blond tresses into two long braids. A warm memory of my Canadian-Senegalese mom doing the same thing when I first started getting weaves for beauty pageants washes over me. God, I miss her. I don’t think I’ll ever stop regretting that she died of cancer before she could see me win the Princess Georgia pageant. She would have been so proud.

But not so much now…another stab of shame replaces the warm memories.

I