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  One

  Never agree to marry a man because he has potential. Men are not like houses; they do not make good fixer-uppers.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  It took her a while, but eventually Breanne Mooreland realized she had a naked man in her shower. Normally that would be the icing on a double-fudge chocolate cake, but in today’s case, where she’d already had more failures than she could face, it felt like the last straw.

  Consider her the camel, back broken.

  In the interest of sanity—hers—she pretended to be fine as she dropped her small carry-on bag to the chair by the bed and stepped to the closed bathroom door. “Um . . . hello?”

  Nothing but the sound of water hitting tiles. She glanced around the bedroom, exquisitely decorated in rustic wooden-log furniture and soft, fluffy, equally exquisite bedding with pillows piled higher than Mt. Everest. Just what she and Dean had ordered for their honeymoon.

  That she was on said honeymoon alone caused her throat to tighten, but she’d cried bucketfuls on the plane and had promised herself no more pity parties.

  But, of course, that had been when she’d merely been stood up at the altar in front of two hundred of her closest friends and family members. Before she’d gotten on the plane from hell all by her lonesome, where the turbulence had been so bad she’d had to stay seated between a three-hundred-pound Louisiana woman crying, “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, have mercy—save us, Jesus!” and an Alaskan fisherman who smelled as if he’d kept some of his daily catch in his pockets.

  Thinking she’d hit rock bottom—oh, how wrong she’d been—she’d gotten off the plane to discover that the rest of her luggage had never made it from San Francisco. That landing in the rugged, unpredictable Sierras in the middle of a snowstorm was equal to being shaken and stirred. The storm had only increased in severity since, so that the Jeep that had driven her to her “secluded, exclusive, fully staffed manse on the lake” honeymoon house could barely even get down the narrow, windy roads.

  Breanne had distracted herself on the terrifying drive by pulling out her Palm Pilot and opening her journal. There she had her life—her hopes, her dreams, her failures, everything. Her last entry, made on the plane: No more failures.

  Ha! That was going to be tricky, as she tended to make bad decisions. Maybe she wasn’t enough of a giver. Maybe she just took, took, took. Maybe concentrating on others more would somehow turn the tide for her. Yeah, that’s what she’d do, she’d give back. Do favors. Perform public service. Try harder at work, where, granted, she slaved over the books for a large accounting firm, but with an attitude.

  She knew being the baby of a large family allowed her to fly beneath the radar. Even with her older brothers looking over her shoulder, she’d sought out trouble like a moth to the proverbial flame, beginning back in elementary school, where her sharp tongue and naughty pranks had regularly gotten her into hot water. By middle school she’d switched from pranks to boys, having developed an early fascination.

  Of course, her mother always put it more simply: Breanne was drawn to the wrong type—jobs, friends, it didn’t matter. Even men. Especially men. Hence, being stood up at the altar—for the third time.

  On second thought, chances were she needed more direction than “no failures,” so she added: And especially, no more men.

  That’s when her driver had begun four-wheeling up a narrow private road lined by tall pines covered in so much snow they looked like two-hundred-foot ghosts, swaying in the wind. On either side of them was a dramatic drop as they rose in altitude with every mile. Hues of peach, pink, blue, and purple colored the sheer granite escarpment of the Sierras through the falling snow in the deepening dusk.

  Finally they’d maneuvered down a long, steep driveway, stopping in front of a beautiful log-cabin mansion. The backdrop should have been a private alpine lake, but the ascending dark and thick precipitation kept it from view.

  “Here you go.” The driver had reached over and opened her door instead of getting out and coming around for her.

  She supposed she couldn’t blame him; night was nearly upon them, and there was at least three feet of white, fluffy snow all around. She ruined her new suede boots just by hoofing it to the front door, clutching her only possession, her carry-on bag. She felt a little awed at how fast it was getting dark, and at the utter lack of city lights—or any lights, for that matter.

  As she’d raised her hand to knock, a blast of wind pummeled her, plastering the snow from face to toe, going in her mouth, stinging her eyes, snaking like chilled fingers down her cashmere, open-necked sweater. Gasping for breath at the shocking cold, she staggered around to face her driver, intending to ask him for help.

  He was gone.

  As she contemplated the aloneness of that, a small streak rushed out from the corner of the house and practically across her feet, ripping a startled scream from her.

  Then the streak howled. A coyote.

  The sound had the hair on the back of her neck rising as she stumbled back against the door. Don’t panic, coyotes don’t eat humans. Probably. Hugging herself, she felt very alone.

  Alone, alone, alone . . . the word echoed in her head in the voice of her mother, who was certain her troubled youngest child would never marry, would never bring forth grandchildren into the world to spoil, and therefore would never amount to anything.

  Shrugging that off—no more pity parties!—Breanne eyed the house. It certainly looked impressive with mounds and mounds of white snow pressed against the base, more white stuff falling, and the sky ominously dark and foreboding. Inside, there was supposedly a huge stone fireplace, a Jacuzzi tub, a sauna, a mini movie theater with an entire library of DVDs to pick from, and much, much more, including her own discreet staff for the week.

  A honeymooner’s delight, right? Dean had claimed to be excited. A shame he’d not been as excited about showing up for the wedding.

  No one answered her second, desperately desperate knock, which for an instant perpetuated the hope that maybe she’d been cast in some sort of new reality show called Torture the Bride. Any second now, the director would yell Cut! and then, in a This Is Your Life moment, Dean would pop out and laugh at her for falling for it.

  Only there was no camera, no Dean, laughing or otherwise, nothing but snow in her face, making her eyes water, her lips cold, raising goose bumps over every inch of her flesh.

  Oh, and let’s not forget the coyote, still howling in the distance with his friends, discussing eating her for dinner.

  Forget polite. She opened the unlocked front door and gaped in awe at the interior of a most impressive house. She stepped inside the foyer that stretched up to the second story—and came face-to-face with a moose.

  Just a head, she told herself, mounted on the wall. Slowly, purposely, she let out the air that she’d nearly used to scream. “Definitely not in Kansas anymore,” she whispered. There was also a wood mirror with shelves, each holding glass lamps that sent soft light across shiny, hardwood floors. In complete opposition to the “warm” feel of the room, the air itself danced over her, icy cold.

  “Hello?” she called out, trying to stomp the snow off her clothes. Not much of it budged, happier to stick to her every inch, making her wet and miserable.

  There was a reception area with a small pine desk, and a sticky note there that read:

  Newlyweds get the honeymoon suite, complete with accessory package. Room is open and cleaned.

  Well, damn it, she might not be a newlywed, but she was still getting that honeymoon suite, charged as it was to the rat bastard Dean’s credit card. She just hoped the suite was warmer than the foyer, because she could make ice cubes in here.

  Clutching her small carry-on, which held only her makeup and two extre