Mountain Daddy: The Single Dad's New Baby (A Baby for the Bad Boy Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  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 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Mountain Daddy: The Single Dad’s New Baby

  Layla Valentine

  Ana Sparks

  Contents

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Mountain Daddy: The Single Dad’s New Baby

  Want More?

  1. Serena

  2. Serena

  3. Serena

  4. Serena

  5. Ethan

  6. Serena

  7. Ethan

  8. Serena

  9. Serena

  10. Ethan

  11. Serena

  12. Ethan

  13. Serena

  14. Serena

  15. Ethan

  16. Serena

  17. Ethan

  Want More?

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Royal Baby: His Unplanned Heir

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Want More?

  Mountain Daddy: The Single Dad’s New Baby

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Copyright 2017 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Serena

  “Man, you really do need a vacation.”

  The man at the grocery store sputtered this to me as I mopped at my sweating brow, waiting in the long line that weaved toward the back. I gave him a grimace, trying to stand on my tippy-toes to see the front.

  “Seems like everyone’s trying to get out of town for Labor Day,” I sighed, playing with my coiffed blond hair. “I don’t blame them. But damn, I should have gotten here earlier; when I planned to. Things never really go as planned, though, do they?”

  “Sure don’t,” he grunted.

  The man I was speaking to—just one of those “friends” you pick up in line everywhere, who shares your qualms with the world—gave me a soft punch on the shoulder. He was carrying a twelve-pack of domestic beer, and his belly bulged out over his jeans. He had the aura of a previous frat boy, reliving the glory days. I could tell by the way he swept his eyes from my shoulders, down the crest of my breasts, and toward the cinch of my waist, that he wanted our conversation to move forward.

  But I felt drained, washed out. I’d been on a dozen or more dates over the previous summer, without a single “win,” and I yearned to be free of the San Francisco streets. I yearned to flee the tech people, who earned high salaries and seemed to eliminate anything interesting or gritty or personable about the city. The reasons my mother and father had been drawn here in the first place. The reasons I had stayed, after finishing law school.

  But it seemed that those reasons were seeping away, making me a stranger in my own land.

  “Where you off to, anyway?” he asked.

  “The Mendocino National Forest,” I told him, knowing this was a place someone like him wouldn’t follow me.

  He gave a snicker, one that read unkind if I listened to it the wrong way.

  “Why the hell would you go all the way out there? We’re renting a boat, my buddies and me. Why don’t you come with us? We’ve got loads of beer and food and afterwards, we’ll have a bonfire on the beach. Classic San Francisco late-summer evening.”

  “I don’t want San Francisco right now,” I said, adjusting the parcels in my grocery basket. “I want to be as far away from this place as possible. I haven’t had a vacation in years.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose high on his face. “But don’t you have unlimited time off? Damn, I don’t know anyone without that. We’re always coming and going as we please in the tech industry. You don’t work in it, I take it?”

  “Defense attorney,” I said. I kept myself low, centered. I wasn’t in the courtroom. I didn’t have to defend myself against anyone like him. Against anyone at all, actually. Not now that I was on vacation for one entire week.

  “Sounds rough.”

  How was it possible that the line hadn’t moved along at all?

  Again, I rose up on my tip toes, and I sensed the man’s eyes on my ass. My hands shifted, feeling the weight of the things I’d packed for the trip away: a water bottle, some snacks for the drive, and a small bar of chocolate. I felt anxious, itchy.

  With a thrust forward, I dropped my basket near a stack of the others, and began to dart toward the door. I was no longer hungry. With my hands drawing into fists, I felt volatile and alive—straining against the vibrant city around me.

  “Hey! You want me to hold your place in line?” the man called from far away, his voice growing whiny in my ear. “Or…?”

  But already, the grocery store doors had pulled apart, revealing the grey and foggy parking lot. My little Chevy Cavalier, red and dented, awaited. I tossed myself into the front seat and inserted the key, bringing up the map to the forest on my phone. The blue line that led me there looked winding and strange, so unlike the simple dart to and from work I’d been taking for the past three years.

  “Mendocino National Forest,” I whispered. “Here I come.”

  I blasted from the little grocery store in the Mission District, easing down Valencia Street. Around me, Mission District hipsters celebrated Labor Day weekend. They held frozen margaritas and large burritos, twirling their mustaches and ogling one another.

  I had been one of them for years, picking up on their culture the minute I darted from my office. I’d dated countless of them: men who told me the bands to listen to, the brands to buy to “do my part for the environment,” and even the houses to live in, based on my “personality” and “needs.” As if they could ever really know.

  No. The fact was, I had always yearned to be out of the city. To walk through the forests and inhale the gorgeous, clean mountain air. I was a life-long city dweller, but I held something else within me. A desire to flee to the mountains. I had the idea that I could really think there, perhaps for the first time.

  In some ways, I imagined I would make a different career move up there. That I would see all the holes in my current life and decide to mop it up, start clean. Maybe I could become an artist, like my father had been. Maybe I could go back to school.
r />   Not that I didn’t love making a difference, as my mother often put it. “These people; they need you.”

  But it had been a long time since I’d been able to separate myself completely from my work.

  In any case, I wasn’t sure what the forest would bring me. But I was certain it would be more than I’d gleaned from the last several years. The constant 9 to 5, the constant humdrum, the men who never cut it or loved me enough or cared about anything besides my looks.

  Once I darted out of the city and onto the highway, I exhaled deeply, feeling relieved. Already, the monkey on my back was falling away.

  I turned up the radio and began to hum along, though feeling almost frightened to sing. Somehow, I hadn’t been alone with my thoughts in a long time, and I was certain someone could hear in.

  As I drove, my phone buzzed twice—both with work-related emails. Slightly panicked, I shot my phone toward the backseat, knowing that they’d have to do the work without me for the seven days ahead. I had to pay attention to what my doctor had said, nearly a year before. “A vacation is your greatest medicine right now, Serena. Seems you’re working yourself to death. More meditation, maybe. More peacefulness. Otherwise, you’re going to age, prematurely. Already, I can see pre-wrinkles on your face.”

  What the hell were pre-wrinkles, anyway? I had wanted to ask him, but instead I shuddered, knowing that my heart, mind and body were fighting back against my unrewarding schedule. I had to find peace.

  The first sign for Mendocino National Forest blipped past me. I shifted my shoulders, leaning forward slightly. The cars had begun to filter off, proving that anyone who had left San Francisco for the holiday weekend hadn’t driven quite this far away. I was beyond them.

  At the base of the mountain, a small town had sprung up: just a small grocery store, seemingly tacked together with a few spare logs and a painted sign, a gas station, a mechanic’s shop, and a church, a block up. The church was a bit crooked, with a cross that had been tacked to the outside. A sign out front read, “For He Is Risen”. An Easter sign, despite the September date. It felt very much that the world didn’t pay attention to the clock out that far. That the world had a different set of rules.

  Checking the address a final time, I leaned on the gas pedal and revved the little car up the base of the mountain, toward the entrance of the National Park. After paying a small fee to a man wearing a brown National Park Service hat, I cranked toward the halfway point of the mountain, where the driveway eased off toward a quaint, rustic cabin. Removing the keys, I ducked out from the driver’s seat and edged toward the cabin, which was situated at the side of a crystalline lake. The water glowed with the mid-afternoon sun, showing the perfect fluff of the clouds above them.

  Placing my hands on my hips, I felt my heart grow light, amazed. This world was not my world. Nothing about it was recognizable. And yet, I could already feel my breath coming and going with ease.

  Closing my eyes, I snuck my foot from my wedged heel and eased my toe into the thin bit of water beneath me. It was icy, cool. A shiver rushed up my spine.

  After a moment, I turned back toward the cabin. The front porch faced the water and was lined with cobwebs, each of them waving along with the wind. Ducking beneath one that crept from one post to the next, I maneuvered toward the door and walked through it, knowing that the key would be on the kitchen table. These had been my instructions. I could lock it when I pleased—but there was no need to lock the door when no one was around. The place had nothing but a table, two chairs, and a bed. I’d even had to bring my own sheets.

  Scanning the cupboards, I realized my stomach had cramped with hunger. Rubbing at my stomach, I reasoned that I wouldn’t be able to get in a comfortable evening hike if I didn’t even have something to eat.

  I bounced back through the front door, darting toward my car. In my head, I began to calculate an appropriate grocery list for the week ahead. Eggs. Bread. Cheese. Maybe a bit of chocolate. Certainly some wine. I’d spend the week drinking and reading and even writing, maybe. I’d spend the week doing precisely what I liked, just alone.

  As I marched from the porch, I spotted a serene moored boat, bobbing in the distance. The top was a bright red, but foggy looking as evening crept across the lake. I was disappointed I couldn’t yet relax, or dive into this world. But I resolved myself to drive quickly and not make a single detour.

  What else could I get up to around there, anyway?

  Chapter 2

  Serena

  Driving back down the mountain so soon after I’d darted up was almost embarrassing. I hung my head as the National Park worker gazed at me, confusion in his eyes. “I’m not giving up,” I wanted to tell him. “I’m here for an entire week! You’ll see!” Just then, I looked like an inexperienced nobody, a scavenger from the city, trying to reap the rewards of the mountain life.

  It reminded me of the time my mother and I had tried to make a bonfire on the beach. We’d stacked a large pile of twigs and logs, making a proper triangle, only to discover we’d left the matches at home. We’d left the pile of tinder, hanging our heads. We’d gotten pizza on the way home and eaten it on the floor, in our pajamas. The antithesis of our goal.

  The grocery store was a generic version of every specialty store in San Francisco. I entered, hearing the early ‘90s soundtrack, and set to work. I grabbed a bottle of wine, some juice and water, and three small chocolate bars. I opted for bread and cheese, some dried fruit, and some almonds, knowing that I’d be out in the woods for long days of hikes, and I couldn’t mess around with “diet” foods, like I did back in the city.

  In fact, after not missing a day at the gym for the last six months, I resolved to eat whatever I pleased. With that thought, I piled another bottle of wine into the cart. “Why the hell not?” I breathed to myself. I needed to lighten up. Wasn’t that the point of this trip?

  I piled the food and drink into a brown paper bag and paid with my debit card, flashing the cashier with a bright smile. “Pretty around here,” I told her.

  “You one of them from the city?” she asked me, a single eyebrow rising high on her forehead.

  “Erm… Yeah, I’m from San Francisco,” I said, feeling a sigh escape my lips. “Why?”

  The woman snorted. “No reason. Can smell the city on you, I guess.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I gathered the brown paper bag, adjusting my shoulders.

  “Just up the mountain, in a cabin,” I told her, almost trying to prove myself. It wasn’t like I’d opted for a hotel down the road. I’d be up there, building a fire with the matches I’d brought—I’d checked twice, just to make sure. Huddling in my blankets for warmth.

  “Hmm,” the woman grumbled, adding a final, sarcastic “Good luck.”

  I flashed my eyes toward her nametag, feeling my tongue stutter. Her name was Joy, a rather ironic name for such a sour character.

  Before I said anything I didn’t mean, I spun toward the door and entered the parking lot. The sun had drawn lower in the night sky, casting long shadows. I’d now given up on my hike for the evening, choosing to replace it with a large glass of wine, perhaps a bit of meditation on the porch. If I felt especially daring, I could leap into that icy blue lake.

  I guided my car back toward the cabin, pointing toward the tags on my car as I swept past the entrance to the National Park. The man at the entrance waved a burly hand. We were now familiar with one another. I was a part of the ecosystem.

  Beyond the entrance, I drove along the winding paved path, glancing around the forest. The trees were mostly pines, thick, with their needles reflecting the last of the afternoon light. About a half-mile more, as I closed in on the cabin, I felt the car begin to sputter beneath me. I squeezed the steering wheel, feeling fright bubble in my stomach.

  “No. You can’t do this to me,” I murmured, feeling smacked. I pushed my foot harder on the gas pedal, feeling the car strain. “Come on, baby.”

  But it seemed that the harder I pushed on t
he gas pedal, the slower the car crept. After another moment, the tires no longer pulsed forward. Only the engine howled.

  With my nostrils flared, I cut the engine and leaned back, huffing. Beads of sweat had begun to spew down my forehead and along my spine. My phone told me, in no uncertain terms, that there was no service. Zero bars.

  This wasn’t the 21st century any longer. I was on my own.

  With my car still on the side of the road, I darted from the driver’s seat and lifted my brown bag, adjusting it in my arms. Glancing back down the mountain—a steep trek, indeed, I reasoned it would be best to bring my things into the cabin, hunt for a phone book or something, and call someone to come take a look at the car. If I couldn’t find anything by nightfall, then, hell, I’d just crack open the wine and try to find an alternative tomorrow.

  I began to trudge up the mountain, leaning forward, clinging to the brown paper sack and feeling the sweat pool at the base of my back. The minutes clicked on, and still, I felt I was growing no closer to the cabin. To the side, I heard a shuffle. Glancing, panicked, I watched as a group of three squirrels whirled up the tree, chasing one another. Their tails bobbed and fluttered.

  “Shh,” I whispered to myself, recognizing the fear rising in my heart. “It’s just a squirrel.”

  But the sound of my own voice did nothing for me. I stopped, adjusting my stance, and turned back toward the car. It was now maybe three football fields away from me—pointed upward, so that I could only see its bright red nose. I felt stress rally in my stomach, something familiar in my normal life as an attorney.

  The whole point of coming into the wilderness was to avoid that stress, I thought. The whole point was to dive into the forest, meditate, relax, find inner peace. But with the sweat continuing to pour, with my eyes blinking back tears, I felt nothing but sadness and shame. Who was I kidding? I was a city girl, hunting for a picture-perfect unreality.