The Mountain Man's Muse

By Frankie Love

When River orders a wife, he’s hoping she’ll cure his writer’s block.
But when he meets his bride, he knows she’s more than a quick-fix— she’s his muse.

Rose needs a quiet place to record her yoga videos and a lakeside cabin in the middle of nowhere is better than her L.A. apartment.
Yes, it means she’s a mail-order bride but Rose isn’t scared of a challenge.
River is handsome and knows how to use his hands .... so what if he’s a bit of a recluse?
She’ll take a deep breath and take it one day at a time.

Except someone is after her— and tracking her every move.
She may be his muse—but she needs a hero.

Dear Reader,
River’s more than a mountain man, he’s a romantic at heart.
He’ll make you swoon, sweat, and have you packing your bags to be the next mail-order bride in this series.

xo, frankie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Love
• Release date: Sep 29, 2021

Frankie Love

Frankie Love writes filthy-sweet stories about bad boys and mountain men. As a thirty-something mom who is ridiculously in love with her own bearded hottie, she believes in love-at-first-sight and happily-ever-afters. She also believes in the power of a quickie. Get ready to fall in love … you deserve it! **Frankie also writes under the name Charlie Hart!

Book preview

Prologue

River

Money doesn't buy happiness, but it can buy a wife.

And I'm hoping that leads to some sort of happiness.

Because right now, from where I'm standing, I know I'm missing something.

I've been burned by women plenty of times. You write a handful of bestselling novels that get turned into award-winning films and people start looking at you differently.

They start seeing you as a prize, not a person.

That's why I called Isabella Rosalind, matchmaker to the wealthy.

She says she'll find me the perfect bride. Which I need. Out here in the wilds of Alaska, there aren't exactly women I can swipe right up. The closest bar is forty minutes away and I've never seen a woman under the age of fifty in that establishment.

If I want a wife, I need some help.

How old? she asks when we talk on a video call.

Under thirty.

Education?

I shake my head. I don't care about college degrees. I’m a self-taught writer. I want a woman who is kind, passionate, and most importantly, able to handle solitude.

Isabella nods. And looks. What kind of woman are you most attracted to?

I run a hand over my beard. Looks? Clearing my throat, I tell her the truth. I don't care about all that. Someone pretty, sure. Easy on the eyes, great. But what I really want is a woman who is like a breath of fresh air, who can get me out of my fucking head, and who can remind me to stop and smell the roses.

Isabella nods, taking notes. And with where you live, could a bride continue her career?

I shrug. Depends on the career. I have Wi-Fi and a quiet piece of land on a private lake, but not much else. No customers are gonna come this far. If she has a job, it would have to be pretty damn specific.

Fantastic, River. And how soon are you wanting your bride?

I look around my big waterfront house that's never felt like a home. Soon. As soon as you find her.

Chapter One

Rose

Oh, so nice and bendy!

You can go down dog on me, girl.

I bet I could stretch you out!

That last one is the final straw.

Can you seriously get the hell away from me? I shout, pulling myself up from Kapotasana and glaring at the cat-callers who don't have a shred of decency in their overpriced suit-covered bones.

Where are all the nice, normal men? I'm sure there's got to be some left in the world.

They definitely do not live in L.A.

I roll up my yoga mat, slip on my sandals, grab my tote bag and head for the bus stop. I thought coming to a park might be less noisy than my apartment complex, but I was wrong. There isn't a single quiet place in this city. Everywhere you go, there are horns honking and angry pedestrians shouting. Everyone is always glaring down at their phones to avoid the smog-covered sky.

Waiting for the bus, I make a mental note not to return to Griffith Park. If only my job situation wasn't such a bust, maybe I could afford a place further from downtown. I hope to get to Sedona one day, maybe Palm Desert. Somewhere private, where I could make my videos without the noisy cityscape ruining the vibe.

It seems like every third person in this city is a qualified yoga instructor. Maybe it's the promise of sunshine that lures otherwise well-balanced people here. But it's like once they arrive, they become douche-canoes.

And it's seriously killed my job prospects. No studio will hire me because I have zero experience teaching a class. I try to keep my checking account in the black by working as many shifts as I can get at the corner deli, but it's as tight as the tension in my shoulders. This afternoon workout was clearly cut way too short.

As I get off the bus fifty-five minutes later, a man stops me on the sidewalk. He's carrying a yoga mat too, so it should be a pretty non-threatening situation. But instead of being, you know, considerate, he says, Hey girl, I could bounce a quarter off that asana.

Yoga puns are worst when they are given by men with man buns and creepy eyes. Let's just say I keep walking the four blocks to my apartment without looking back.

I grab my mail; an overdue water bill and a student loan payment that I can't afford. I mean, why does Sallie Mae think I dropped out in the first place?

There was no way I could afford to work full-time while struggling through class. Maybe for some people, school is a breeze. For me, it was always hard. And without a family to pick me up when I fell, I didn't re-enroll after my second year.

I'm not a victim, I'm just not a scholar. So, I figured out what I am good at -- yoga. I just haven't exactly landed on my feet yet. Most days, I'm winning if I remember to inhale, exhale, repeat.

As I walk up the three flights of stairs, my stomach rumbles. The scent of my neighbor, Fiametta's cooking fills the corridor. The aromas of fresh basil and roasted garlic waft toward me and I feel woozy with hunger.

She sticks her head out of her door as I pass, and she calls after me. "Rose, my bellisima, did you see what they put on your door?"

Put on my what? I ask, coming to a stop at the end of the hall. A bright orange paper flags me down.

FINAL EVICTION NOTICE

"What happened, ma bella?" Fiametta asks as I rip the notice from my door, reading the bold print a second time.

MUST LEAVE PREMISES IN SEVEN DAYS UNLESS ACCOUNT PAID IN FULL.

I groan inwardly, realizing this is the new low. If I lose my apartment... I swallow, blinking back tears.

Come inside, you need food, she says, pulling me into her apartment that always manages to lead me back to what Italy must have been like a century ago. With porcelain plates and braids of garlic hanging on the wall. There are thick carpets, stacks of books, and the food. Always delicious food. A fresh-from-the-oven lasagna is on the counter and I wipe away the drool as I explain what happened.

Tony at the deli needed some help. His car broke down and he was in a jam. So, I lent him money. Then Jana needed help with her vet bill. Her cat got cancer and I couldn't just--

Fiametta interrupts me as she waves her hands in the air. Rose, you see the problem? You help everyone and don't help yourself.

It's not just that, I say, sighing. Truth is, I spent the last of my savings on a video camera and editing software. If a studio won't hire me, I