I came to Lone Mountain to prove one thing.
That I wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of adventure. Not of trying new things. Even whitewater rafting.
Turns out? Maybe I should’ve been.
Because ten minutes into the trip, I get launched out of the raft, inhale half the river, lose a shoe, and nearly drown.
And who rescues me?
None other than Bigfoot.
Well, not exactly Bigfoot, but he could pass for one.
Garrick was a giant of a mountain man who waded into the rapids, dragged me back to shore like a soggy raccoon, and immediately started bossing me around like almost drowning was somehow my fault.
He has rough hands, too many muscles, and a permanent scowl that somehow only makes him hotter. He acts like he wants to be left alone, grunting like a caveman every time I open my mouth.
Too bad for him.
Because if there’s one thing I learned after almost drowning?
Life’s too short not to take chances.
Even on a mountain man who grumbles every time I talk… I’m starting to wonder if almost getting swept down the river was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me.
