Jameson: The Men of Whiskey Mountain Book 2 Read online

  Jameson

  The Men of Whiskey Mountain Book 2

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  About

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  BEAM: Book 3

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About

  JAMESON: The Men of Whiskey Mountain, 2

  I’ve been on Whiskey Mountain for years, refusing to live off my family’s fortune.

  I can take care of myself like a real-ass man by flying seaplanes, delivering illegal cargo, and keeping a low profile.

  Then Jemma knocks on my door.

  And my world changes.

  Everyone thinks she’s dead.

  But by the way she moves, making my cock hard, and my heart swell; hell, she is very much alive.

  And she needs a man who can protect her, a man she can trust.

  She thinks I’m a good guy.

  I’d better become one before it’s too late.

  Dear Reader,

  We’re back on Whiskey Mountain, and trouble is afoot.

  But before the shit hits the fan, Jameson’s determined to give Jemma the night of her life!

  He’s a next-level mountain man and he’s swinging more than an ax — just sayin’!

  He’s carrying solid wood, baby!

  It’s filthy, and it’s sweet, it’s everything you need.

  Xo, Frankie

  Chapter One

  Jameson

  The rain is relentless; it's been pouring for hours. And as I step outside my cabin, pulling up the hood on my raincoat, I look up to the heavens and wonder what on God's green Earth could have angered him so damn much today.

  Lightning streaks through the sky and it would be a beautiful sight if it weren't so damn treacherous. A lightning storm in a forest isn't exactly my version of paradise. However, this mountain — Whiskey Mountain — is home sweet home, and I wouldn't leave here for anything.

  So. I gotta protect it; protect the people that live here. The last thing anyone needs is their place getting flooded out. Pulling my door shut, I walk down a well-traveled path toward Waverley and Walker's home. It's weird to think of it as Wavy’s place, but they've been together long enough at this point, nearly a year, that I figure it's her place as much as it is his.

  Since they're in Anchorage right now having their twins, I gotta make sure everything's okay. I cut through the clearing at the south end of my property and head through their woods. The forest is a decent covering from the rainstorm, but I still want to get out of the downpour. The leaves and debris-strewn path is half a mile walk from my place to theirs. I see the lake ahead of me, Walker's boat tied up to his dock.

  We both live on this lake at the base of Whiskey Mountain, and I'm grateful for the company. Sure, I'm a loner, but it isn't the worst thing to have a neighbor to drink some whiskey with every once in a while; he’s another soul to shoot the shit with. Now that Walker went and got himself married, those days are far and few between.

  I don't begrudge Walker any of it. I know he's had a shitty life and to have a little bit of sunshine cracking through his storm ain't so bad. Still, I guess the best way to say it is that I'm a little jealous. Hell, I've never met a woman like Wavy, or any woman who sets my heart on fire, puts a spark in my step, the way I know she did for Walker. I can't imagine settling down like they have unless it was the real ass deal. Unless there was no way out except going through with it.

  When I get to the cabin, I’m surprised to see a light on inside. I frown, running a hand over my thick beard. Maybe they left it on to make sure there was light when they came home after the babies were born. But that doesn't seem quite right. They are planning on being gone for a few months. They have an apartment up in Anchorage so that the newborns can have close access to a doctor. I understand why they are concerned. It makes sense. Wavy’s scared for the lives of her little ones after going through so much herself, and so Walker is making sure she feels safe. And after the life Wavy’s had, I understand why that's so damn important to him too.

  Maybe in their rush, they forgot to turn off the lights. I mount the steps of the front porch, wanting to get inside to make sure all their windows are sealed tight and to check if there are any leaks inside.

  I pull out my keys to unlock the door, but to my surprise, I see it's not secured. I push my way inside the cabin, calling for them, knowing they're not here. “Walker, Wavy?” I shout.

  There's no answer, of course, but my eyes widen when I take in the scene. Clearly, someone's been here — is here. And maybe not for long. Walker and Wavy only left this morning. Still, there's a backpack on the couch, with a woman's jacket next to it. There's a pair of boots on the floor, a sweater, and a tee-shirt. I keep walking, following the trail of clothes, stepping past one sock than another. I move down the hallway past the nursery, stepping over a pair of jeans. Then I bend down, my cock twitching as I take in the next article of clothing — a hot pink thong.

  “Who the hell is here?” I shout, stepping forward. I inch my way around a lacy bra and hear the water running in the bathroom. The shower is on. Goddammit, a woman is in the bathroom right past this door.

  I frown, my hand itching to knock. There's an intruder in the cabin. I pause. Why the hell am I knocking for an intruder? I push open the door.

  “Who's here?” I demand.

  A woman in the shower shrieks, pulling the curtain tight over her body before sticking her head out through the divider.

  “What are you doing?” she shouts, her hair is wet, her eyes wild. She's not scared. She's angry. “What in the hell are you thinking, walking in here like that? Can you not see that I'm in the shower -- naked!”

  She's jumping ahead in this conversation, acting as if I know her, when in truth, I haven't a clue.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Who are you?” she fights back, indignantly. I can see the outline of her body through the sheer curtain, smooth curves, and a narrow waist, a full chest, and a round ass. “Are you staring at me?” she asks.

  I cough into my hand. “No, but I’m not the one who should be getting the third degree. What are you doing here? This isn't where you live.”

  “How do you know?” she asks haughtily. She has jet black hair and bright blue eyes — Snow white teeth with red lips that look perfectly pouty. Her skin's fair. She has blunt bangs across her forehead and long hair past her elbows.

  “Seriously,” she repeats. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jameson,” I say. “But the real question is, who are you?”

  “I don't have to answer that.” With that, she slams the curtain shut and goes back to her shower. I see her reach for a bar of soap; I see her bending over and starting to wash her body.

  “Are you kidding me?” I groan.

  “I'm sorry,” she says
, “I’m a little occupied at the moment.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, slamming the bathroom door shut before stalking down the hall. I grab her clothes, put them in a bundle, and toss them in a pile by her shoes. Where the hell does this girl think she’s sleeping? She doesn't live here. She isn't even from here. It's not that I have cataloged every woman in Alaska, but I have a good enough finger on the pulse of who's who, and she’s not from here.

  The question is, how'd she get here, and why did she come? I'm not going to get an answer by storming back into the bathroom, and I don't reckon I'm very interested in pissing her off. So instead, I take off my rain jacket and roll up my flannel sleeves and put on a pot of coffee. It's fucking cold outside, and I need something to warm me up. I pull down a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, and as the coffee brews, I root around the cabinets for a box of cookies or a tin of crackers, something. That girl in the shower looked hungry. I saw it in her eyes, her hollow cheeks. Beyond that, there's something primal in me that wants to make sure she's been fed.

  I find a package of cookies. I rip it open and set them on the kitchen table. I root through the cupboards a little more and see some crackers. Then I open the fridge.

  In it, I find some cheese and apples. I peel the skin from the apple and slice it along with some of the cheese. I'm making her a goddamn snack. I don't know why considering she's an intruder. Still, I feel a sense of duty. I add some of the whiskey to the coffee and add a bit of cream. I set it on the table pleased with myself. There, a feast.

  I wouldn't say it’s home cooking. It’s not a hot meal. But it's something. At my cabin, I eat cans of chili. If I'm feeling extravagant, I might make some instant potatoes. I keep it simple — running as far from my highfalutin’ family as possible. It's as if eating the most basic stuff I can find will somehow make up for a lifetime of fancy meals. Sure, we lived in Alaska, but Mom imported shit from the States, and it was all high end.

  I hear the water stop and the bathroom door open. I can smell the woman before I can see her. She smells like a rain shower dipped in lavender. Like spring flowers, their petals dripping with dew. She smells like fresh air. She smells like something new.

  And when I see her wrapped in a fluffy white towel, bare legs, bare arms, bare shoulders — damn, I'm hard for her. This girl I don't know hasn’t even told me her name, but she has a body I would lay down my life for.

  “I didn't want you to yell at me for rooting through Wavy’s closet to find something to wear.”

  I frown. “You know Wavy?”

  She pushes her lips forward. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. I don't really know who you are, so I'm not prepared to answer your questions.”

  “In that case,” I say, kicking out a chair, “sit.”

  She rolls her eyes, but she tiptoes toward the chair at the kitchen table, her feet leaving watermarks across the hardwood floor.

  “It's freezing in here,” she says. “And I'm, like, in a towel.”

  “Then drink your coffee, and warm yourself up.”

  “What? Is this a hostage situation?” she asks.

  “No,” I say slowly, “But you are in my best friend's house, and I'm the person who's supposed to be looking after it.”

  Her eyes narrow. “So, it's just a regular ol’ interrogation.”

  “How do you want me to phrase it?” I ask her. “Go on. Tell me.”

  “I want to, but more than that, I want to get dressed. I don’t really like sitting here mostly naked in front of a man I've never seen.”

  “There's a pile of clothes in the hall. Your clothes, I presume.”

  “I don't exactly want to put on the clothes I've been wearing for a week. They're pretty disgusting.” She lifts the coffee and takes a sip. “Oh God, this is so good,” she moans, looking down at the table, noticing all the food. “Did you do this?” she asks aggressively as if I did something wrong.

  “You have a problem with crackers and cheese?”

  She shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe you're poisoning me.” She sets the coffee down. “This could have poison in it,” she says, pointing into the coffee cup.

  “You think I’d poison the most beautiful woman I've ever seen?” I ask. Heat rises to her cheeks, and she averts her eyes. “What? You don't like it when I tell the truth?”

  “No, I just don't like being in confined spaces with strangers.”

  “I see, you want to get me being a stranger out of the way.” I reach for a cookie and take a bite. She does the same; her hunger outweighing her fear of being poisoned. “Well, I already told you my name. I'm Jameson Ridge. I live about half a mile away, next door to Walker and Wavy. I've lived here for five years. Before that, I lived in Anchorage. My parents, they own half the waterfront in that city.” I pause, letting her soak up whatever she needs to hear to feel better. She’s listening carefully, and I realize she may but on a brave face, but deep down, she is scared.

  I rise from the table and get a bathrobe from Wavy’s room. When I return, I tell her to put it on. “You look frozen.”

  “I told you that much.” She stands and pushes her arms into the sleeves, turning to drop the towel and cinch the robe to her waist. “Thank you,” she says, and she retakes her seat. The rain pounds on the roof, and she looks at me expectantly.

  So, I continue. “I'm an Alaskan man, born and raised, and Whiskey Mountain is my home. It’s where I belong. I came down here to their cabin because there's a hell of a rainstorm if you hadn't noticed, and my job is to make sure this place is secure until Wavy and Walker get back.”

  “When is that?” the woman asks.

  “I don't think I'll answer you.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because I still don't know who you are. I've told you everything about me. Now it’s your turn, honey.”

  She sighs, setting the coffee down, then picking it up again. Anxiety is written on her delicate features. “The trouble is,” she says, “the moment I tell you, everything's going to change.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you say you're Walker's best friend. That means you're pretty close to him and Wavy, I'm assuming. And that means you've probably already made up your mind about who I am, what I am.”

  “Are you trying to be cryptic with your message, or can you tell me plainly what you mean?”

  “I’m Jemma,” she says finally. “I’m Wavy’s sister. And she thinks I'm dead.”

  Chapter Two

  Jemma

  I knew that the moment I told him who I was, he was going to look at me differently. I was right.

  The man sitting across from me is handsome in a way I'm not familiar with. He's rugged and worn, but not in a weathered way, but in a wise way. Like he sees things, understands things, or knows things about the world that I don't. Or maybe that's just what I want to see in the man across from me.

  I don't want him to be a threat or a danger. I want him to be understanding. I crave it with all that I am. I’m so tired of men who look past me to get to what they want. When he doesn't push back from the table, doesn’t give me a look of disgust, and instead reaches his hand across the tabletop reaching for mine, I exhale. I don’t flinch. It’s like at that moment all I want is to be held.

  He takes my hand between his two palms, holding me in place; my heart stirs in a way I wasn't expecting. Jameson doesn't seem horrified by who I am. He seems compassionate. His hot chocolate brown eyes melt my hard shell.

  I'm not this soft girl. No. I’m sharp around the edges for a reason. I have had to be. I've always had to be. There was no one else in this world who was going to look out for me, so I had to make it on my own.

  Wavy, of course, held it against me, my tough act. But I had to act that way, or I would've been eaten up alive. We both would have.

  I swallow hard as Jameson's thumbs run over my own. His fingers are callused and rough. I can tell he works hard. He's strong, with muscular forearms. I see the veins popping through, up his arm, leading to his
heart. His biceps bulge, drawing my eyes up to his broad shoulders. He's solid and tall. A man with a thick beard, but not a thick skull.

  Jameson watches me as I collect my thoughts as if he's refusing to say the next thing, refusing to jump in and ask me questions, which is fair enough. He's told me plenty about himself, who he is, where he lives. I haven’t done the same. I’m trying to hold everything back.

  The silence is unnerving, and he still has a hold of my hand. Finally, I speak, unable to bear the growing tension.

  “Has my sister ever talked about me?” I ask him.

  He runs a hand over his beard. “I’ve heard a few things from Wavy.”

  I smirk, my usual defense mechanism. I pull my hand back and grab a hair tie from my wrist, wrapping my still wet hair up into a messy bun on the top of my head. “Oh, I'm sure you heard all sorts of things. How I'm this terrible person. How I led her down a path of disaster. How I — “

  Jameson cuts me off. “She never talked like that. Wavy said you were dead. She said she missed you. Hell, she said she loved you.”

  I swallow. Of course, she did. Perfect Wavy. She would never have said a mean thing about me. I laugh sharply. A little too tightly. So tightly that it shows that I’m on edge and about to break. Maybe I've already broken. Maybe pieces of me have been left like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to this cabin in the woods. Perhaps I've been leaving pieces of myself all the way from California to the Whiskey Mountains.