Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
I spent four days wandering through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest near Mt. Rainier by myself, cold, wet, and starving. I was thirteen. I haven't stepped foot in a forest or on a mountain since. The first thing I did when they found me was opt out of all future field trips for the rest of forever. But it's been ten years.
It's time for me to grab Babe the Blue Ox by the horns and face my fear.
What better place than with a client who is basically Paul Freaking Bunyan?
"You can do it," I coach myself. Stone-Cold Sober Me isn't convinced, but she picks up the phone anyway.
I dial the number from the ad and The Wonder Pets theme plays through my head—the part about the phone ringing. My childhood comes rushing back in a sea of anxiety.
"Dammit, Nell," a man growls on the third ring. The gravelly timbre of his voice reminds me of thunder rumbling in the distance. It's strangely…erotic. "Would you stop fucking bugging me and let it ride, already? I told you I'm not fucking going."
"Um, who's Nell?" I ask, and then internally cringe. I should really work on minding my business and not everyone else's. He doesn't sound like he's in a sharing mood.
The line goes silent for a heartbeat and then I hear him take a breath. "From the sounds of it, not you," he says.
"Nope."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Cordelia Shanks."
He sighs, sounding exasperated. "Well, Cordelia Shanks, I don't need whatever you're selling, unless it's cookies. I'm Buddhist. And my Jeep is older than Lucifer so I don't have or need an extended warranty, either. And if you're calling to scam me, don't."
"I'm not selling anything or scamming anyone," I say. "Wait. Are you really a Buddhist?"
"Depends on if you're calling to spread the good word about our Lord and Savior," he growls. "Because I don't have the time for it."
"I'm not."
"Then no."
"Oh. Then why Buddhism? Why not go with I'm a Satanist?"
"I'm trying to get off the phone, not have every church from here to Oregon calling me," he says. "Or showing up at my damn door."
"Good point. I didn't think about that."
"I'm hanging up now. Do me a favor and don't call back."
"Wait! Hire me first."
Oh, good grief. That is not what I meant to say.
"Hire you? I don't even know you. Why in the hell would I hire you?"
"Your ad," I blurt, talking fast to keep him from hanging up on me. He's awful cranky. Are all mountain men grumpy, or did I just win the lottery? I probably just won the lottery. A real-life, grumpy mountain man. The girls are going to love this. I'm not so sure I'm going to love this, though. I'm the opposite of grumpy. "You need a personal assistant for two weeks, and I'm the answer to your prayers, Mr. Mountain Man, sir. The Shanks Agency—that's me, by the way—is capable of handling all of your needs. I'm hardworking, a self-starter, and I require very little supervision. You tell me what you need, and you'll get it."
"Say that again," he growls, his voice rougher.
"Um, which part?"
"What you called me."
"Oh. Mr. Mountain Man, sir?" I repeat, my brows furrowed. "Your ad didn't have a name attached. I'm not sure exactly what your job title is. I tried to look it up, but the internet wasn't very helpful, sir. There aren't very many mountain men left, apparently."
"Fuck," he rumbles, only it sounds more like a groan. "Deacon."
"What?"
"My name is Deacon, Cordelia."
"Deacon," I repeat, testing it out. It's an interesting name. Kind of…sexy.
"Jesus Christ," he growls. Does he ever speak normally or does everything he say come out in that same grumpy, growly tone? "Do you even know what an assistant for a mountain man does, Sunshine?"
"No," I say slowly. "But I didn't know what a paranormal adventure tour guide did either until I was crawling through tunnels under Seattle. I learn quickly, Mr. Deacon, and I'd really like to help you."
Please say yes so I don't have to tell the girls my master plan fell through. I can't be the ringleader and the failure!
"Deacon," he growls. "It's just Deacon."
"Okay, then. I'd really like to help you, Deacon." I pause. "I can send my resume and references."
"Don't need them," he mutters, and my stomach sinks. He's not going to hire me. I'm going to be the first of the girls to strike out. Crap on a cracker. Drunk Me is banned from coming up with ideas for at least the next year. "If you're going to work for me, I have rules, Sunshine."
Wait, what? He wants to hire me?
Thank you, Spooks Below Decks! I knew taking that crazy job would pay off some day.
"Name them," I say, willing to agree to just about anything he throws at me.
"Rule one, you do what I say, when I say," he says. "No questions asked. I'm not going to have you getting eaten by a goddamn bear because you got out here and wouldn't listen."