Preorder now!

Hey babe,

Some love stories start with a stranger in a snowstorm. This one starts with the man who’s been fixing your van for three decades.

Holiday Heat with the Mountain Man releases November 6, and I can’t wait for you to meet these two.

Meet Piper
She runs the bakery in Greypaw, taps her own maple syrup every March, and keeps the best bottle for herself (she calls it quality control). She’s organized, sharp, and very good at not looking at things she isn’t ready to see. Like the way her best friend’s laugh suddenly hits her right in the sternum.

Meet Bart
Bear shifter. Owns the auto shop. Built Piper’s evaporator to her very complicated spec and never made a thing of it. He’s spent twenty years carefully managing a mate bond he never let himself name, because losing Piper’s friendship would cost him everything.

Then the pipe bursts.

Her kitchen floods two days before Christmas, every repair crew is booked until January, and there’s exactly one place left on the Row for her to stay: his guest room.

Twelve days. One narrow hallway. One very small towel.

You’ll get:
🔥 Friends to lovers, thirty years in the making
🔥 Forced proximity over the holidays
🔥 A hidden fated-mate bond
🔥 Grown-up heroes who growl (and grown-up heroines who like it)
🔥 Familiar faces from the Row and Bears of the Rockies
🔥 A swoony New Year’s Eve HEA

👉 Preorder now: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GJG4H9TB

New to Greypaw? Grab your free story here: Bonded to the Bear

Cozy up,
Peyton

Featured Books

Hey Babes,

Every boy in the village knows the stories of the Nameless Witch: hideous, deadly, and merciless to any who fail her trials.

Sixteen-year-old Hans has waited his whole life for the Völva Frami, the ritual that will make him a man. But when the witch tests his courage in the dark woods, he sees something the others don’t: kindness hidden behind the fear.

Åse has spent her life alone, cursed to appear as a monster and judged by the very village that fears her. No one has ever asked her name. No one has ever looked at her, not her face, but her.

Until Hans.

Can one brave boy see past the legend and break a curse that has bound her family for generations?

The Witch’s Curse is a short, sweet Viking love story of fate, courage, and the magic of being truly seen. It is the origin tale of the parents of the Jürgensen brothers, and it reads perfectly as a standalone.

Inside you’ll find:

• A Norse-inspired witch and warrior fairytale

• A generational curse and a rite of passage

• Instant love and a heart-melting happily ever after

Fans of the Jürgensen Vikings, don’t miss the beginning of the legend.

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MAYA

I came to Hale Ridge to review a luxury resort—not to be kidnapped in the wilderness. Hunter Hale warned me. I didn’t listen. When I escape and see what he really is, my life shatters into before and after. The hardest part isn’t believing in bears. It’s trusting the man who tried not to claim me.

HUNTER I control every crisis—until my mate walks into my lobby and puts herself in danger. Negotiating for her life nearly breaks me. Shifting in front of her destroys everything I worked to protect. If she runs, I’ll let her. If she stays, I’ll never let her fall again.

If you love forced proximity, protector heroes, luxury-meets-wilderness romance, and steamy bear shifter paranormal romance, this book is perfect for fans of Lynn Raye Harris, Zoe Chant, and Eve Langlais.

👉 Taken by the Bear is Book 3 in the Bears of the Rockies series. 🐻❤️

Have you read it? Please consider reviewing it on Amazon, Goodreads, or Bookbub. Reviews help me reach new readers.

Featured Books

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Hey Babes,

We have a lot of new subscribers so I thought I’d introduce you to the original mountain man.

Stranded by a brutal storm, Viking warrior Sören finds himself at the mercy of Firtha, a fiery Highland healer rumored to be a witch. As winter traps them together in her isolated cottage, mistrust melts into searing desire — and a love neither can deny.

But in a land ruled by fear and suspicion, passion is dangerous. Villagers whisper of sorcery. Enemies lurk in the snow. And Sören’s honor — and Firtha’s life — hang in the balance.

Can a battle-hardened warrior and a forbidden witch defy the world and claim a future together?

Sören: Healed by a Highland Witch is a steamy historical Viking romance bursting with fierce heroes, strong heroines, sizzling chemistry, and heart-pounding adventure.

Book 1 of 17 in the Hot Vikings series. Perfect for fans of Joanna Courtney, Heather McCollum, and strong steamy historicals with edge-of-your-seat stakes.

Books from Friends

Hey babes!

Drawn by the Bear is available in Kindle Unlimited, and I’m so excited to finally tell you about Drake and Everly!

There are men who work a room and men who read one.

Drake Voss has been reading The Claw for twelve years. He knows who’s had too many, who needs a cab, who just needs five minutes before they go home. He runs the door the way the best people run anything — on quiet attention and zero tolerance for what shouldn’t be there.

He’s forty-seven, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples. He has the kind of face that’s been lived in hard and looks better for it. He doesn’t do small talk. He doesn’t explain himself. And in twelve years, his bear has said one word about one person.

That word is mine.

Everly Marsh didn’t come to The Claw looking for anything. She came for Jess — for three weeks before the wedding, for one night of not being the responsible one. She’s a kindergarten teacher. She closes doors behind her. She nurses a single gin and tonic for forty-five minutes and watches her friends like someone who loves them completely and is also already calculating how everyone gets home.

She’s forty-four. She’s been steady and careful and self-contained for a decade, ever since the phone call that ended everything. She’s built a good life. Good lives don’t need to be complicated.

Then a stranger leans too close, Drake materializes out of nowhere, and one word sends that stranger walking.

She notices the word.

She notices him.

Two people who’ve already learned what it costs to lose the things that matter most.

One fated bond neither of them asked for.

And something dangerous circling at the edges of Greypaw that’s decided Everly is worth pursuing.

Drawn by the Bear is a standalone set in the Bears of the Rockies world. No cliffhanger. Full HEA. And a slow-burn that absolutely does not stay slow.

Can’t wait for you to meet them.

Read in KU

With love,

Peyton 🐻

xo

Featured Book

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Hey gorgeous readers!

Fall is here and so is your next book boyfriend! Here’s an exclusive excerpt of Carved by the Mountain Man that'll make you want to read it immediately.

Meet Walker - grumpy single dad who carves wood and hearts:

Trust me, it only gets steamier from there! Walker doesn't do second chances, but when sunshine-in-hiking-boots Hallie crashes into his world, fall magic happens. Add his adorable seven-year-old matchmaker daughter, and you've got autumn romance perfection.

What you're getting:

• Single dad × sunshine heroine chemistry

• Fall festival setting with all the cozy vibes

• Kid matchmaker who steals every scene

• Woodcarving hero who's all rough edges and tender heart

• Heat level: Steamy enough to fog windows

BUY NOW Available FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

Can't wait for you to fall for Walker and Hallie!

Peyton 💋

Binge the Series Today

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Hey babes,

My story Tied with the Bear is included in this awesome paranormal romance anthology!

Lunar Seductions brings together nine steamy tales of supernatural desire, dangerous attraction, and romance that refuses to play by mortal rules.

Lose yourself among shifters, monsters, psychics, goddesses, and other creatures of the night. Meet lovers bound by fate, trapped by circumstance, divided by old grudges, or drawn together despite every reason to stay apart.

There are secrets to uncover, enemies to tempt, boundaries to cross, and more than a few teeth and claws waiting in the dark.

Give in to temptation.

The moon won’t tell.

Including stories by:

• Stephanie Morris - USA Today bestselling author

• Charmaine Louise Shelton

• Nadine D. Price

• Danika LaRue

• Kiera Rose

• Peyton Lawson

• Celia Breslin

• Ravyn Wilde

• Ryan L Reeve

Buy Now!

Peyton xo

Check out this Kickstarter!

Featured Books

Freebie

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Preorder Now!

Hey babes,

When a high-profile woman attends her best friend’s remote mountain wedding, her team insists on protection—but a visible security detail would ruin the weekend. The solution? Hire a local private security contractor to pose as her plus-one.

Graham Holt is used to staying in the background. Watching. Anticipating threats. He doesn’t do social events, and he definitely doesn’t do pretend relationships. But when he’s asked to attend a wedding as his client’s date, he agrees to one rule: stay close, stay professional, and don’t cross the line.

Elena Park just wants one weekend without headlines, tension, or fear. She didn’t expect her fake date to be quiet, commanding, and impossible to ignore—or for the chemistry between them to feel anything but pretend. As the wedding unfolds and subtle dangers surface, Graham’s role shifts from escort to protector… and Elena realizes the man meant to blend in might be the only one she feels truly safe with.

A steamy, open-door mountain romance featuring a fake date, a wedding weekend, and a silver fox hero who takes protection personally.

Peyton

xo

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Hey babes!

Victoria Fleet arrives at a mountain lodge she’s just inherited and has never heard of, carrying her portfolio and a four-day timeline. Her plan is simple. Assess, document, sell, leave.

The first crack appears immediately: someone has been maintaining this place. It’s warm. Lived-in. Nothing like the cold efficiency her father built his public life around.

The second crack is a man in the doorway.

Rourke Vander tells her she can’t sell. That her father made promises. That something lives in this territory worth protecting — and she’s about to destroy it through ignorance. He’s blunt and territorial and frustrating, and he’s inside her head before she can stop it.

Then she finds the journals.

Fifteen years of her father’s private thoughts, written in a cabin he never mentioned, about a life he kept entirely separate from the one he’d built with her. About a man named Rourke. About learning to sit with silence instead of filling it. About what happens when you stop controlling long enough to see.

Victoria came here to close her father’s chapter. What she gets instead is the beginning of her own.

Thawed by the Bear is FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

Buy or Borrow on Amazon

If you haven’t started the series yet, the prequel Bonded to the Bear is FREE on BookFunnel,

Happy reading,

Peyton 🐻

xo

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Freebie

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My gorgeous readers,

The Virgin Mountain Man Falls First is reverse age gap perfection that breaks all the rules! This exclusive excerpt will show you why Lynx and Morgan's story is absolutely addictive:

When experience meets innocence:

Morgan's 40, divorced, and done with men who don't know what they want. Lynx is 28, mountain-raised, and virgin-pure in ways that should be illegal. When she hikes to his remote cabin seeking solitude, she finds temptation in flannel instead.

This reverse age gap romance delivers:

• Virgin hero who worships his experienced woman

• Older heroine who takes charge

• Mountain cabin isolation

• He falls first and falls HARD

• Age gap that makes the heat burn deeper

Buy or Borrow on Amazon

Age is just a number when the connection burns this deep,

Peyton 💋

Books from Friends

Hey babes,

Bitterroot Ridge’s Harvest Festival is in full swing — cider, lanterns, a pumpkin-carving contest — and hiding in the middle of it is a bodyguard on a job he never talks about, and a woman who just quit her entire life to find out what happens next. Here’s who you’re falling for this time:

BABS MILLS Recently unemployed event coordinator. Professionally organized. Personally winging it.

Six years of running other people’s events taught Babs to read a room — the exits, the bottlenecks, the guy loitering at the edge of the crowd who is very obviously not there for the cider. She quit her job, packed a storage unit, and drove six hours to Bitterroot Ridge with no plan beyond let the mountains clarify things. They did. Just not in the way she expected.

📌 Signature trait: says the true thing out loud, immediately, without flinching

📌 Wins second place in the pumpkin-carving contest with a maple leaf better than first

FLETCHER MORRISSON Ridge Defense Group contractor. Nine words a day, and he means every one.

Fletcher is in Bitterroot Ridge on a protection detail he can’t discuss, watching a crowd for a threat that’s very real. What he doesn’t plan on is the woman who clocks his surveillance in under three minutes and invites him for cider anyway. He’s a man of very few words — but the ones he carves last a lot longer than the ones he says.

📌 Signature trait: carves apple wood — a maple leaf disc, engraved, one word at a time, across the whole book

📌 Book boyfriend line: “I’ve never carved anything for someone before.”

✔️ Small-town, forced proximity (one storm, one line cabin)

✔️ Secret bodyguard hero, quietly protecting a witness at the festival

✔️ Grumpy/sunshine, opposites-attract banter

✔️ Curvy, confident heroine who never needs rescuing

✔️ Fall festival, Bitterroot Ridge world-building throughout

“The first was a beginning. The second was a decision. This one’s just true.”

Autumn Mountain Man is available now.

Buy or Borrow on Amazon

Peyton

xo

Don’t forget to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or Bookbub. Reviews help me reach new readers!

Chapter 1: Babs

The maples in Bitterroot Ridge burned like they were showing off.

I’d driven six hours from Portland with one podcast in the background, half a bag of gas station pretzels, and the specific kind of relief that only comes when you’ve finally done the thing you were too scared to do for two years. I’d quit. Packed my apartment into a storage unit that smelled like cedar and someone else’s ambition, pointed my car east, and let the mountains do what mountains allegedly did—which was clarify things.

The relief had hit somewhere around the Cascade summit, that long descent into the high desert where the sky opened up and got enormous. I’d rolled the window down despite the cold and breathed it and thought: yes, this is the correct decision. Then immediately thought: I have nowhere to go. Then thought: that’s also fine, that’s actually the point.

I had two weeks in a rental cabin in Bitterroot Ridge that I’d booked at eleven at night on a Tuesday after watching forty-five minutes of fall foliage content online and deciding the universe was telling me something. I had no plan past that. I had, for the first time in six years, a completely unstructured agenda, and the fact that this felt terrifying and also like oxygen was information I was still processing.

So far, Bitterroot Ridge was delivering.

The Harvest Festival had taken over the main block in a way that felt less organized and more organic, like the town had exhaled and this had come out. Booth after booth of amber and rust and deep burgundy, pumpkins stacked in pyramids, hand-lettered signs for apple cider and smoked meats and something called a Ridge Roll that had a line eight people deep. Fairy lights strung between the lampposts. The smell of woodsmoke and cinnamon and the cold, clean edge that told you the mountains were close even when you couldn’t see them.

I was standing at the edge of the main street holding a paper cup of cider I’d bought from the first booth I’d passed, mapping the layout the way I always did in new spaces—exits, traffic flow, where the bottlenecks would be in an hour when it got crowded—when I saw him.

He wasn’t at a booth. He wasn’t in the crowd. He was at the far end of the block, near where the festival’s string lights gave out, and the tree line started, leaning against a split-rail fence with a coffee in his hand and an expression that said he was taking attendance.

Tall. Wide through the shoulders in the way that suggested actual labor, not a gym. Dark jacket, worn at the collar. The kind of face that had been weathered into its best version—jaw set, eyes scanning, nothing slack about any of it. He was watching the crowd. I’d worked events long enough to read people against a crowd. That man was not a festivalgoer who’d wandered to the edge for a breath of air.

I took a sip of my cider and looked away.

Looked back.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the main booth cluster near the center of the block, steady and unhurried, like he was counting something. I wondered what he was counting.

I decided not to wonder and went to find the pumpkin-carving contest.

The contest was in the north quadrant of the festival, which I’d already identified as the high-traffic anchor—smart placement, it drew people past the food vendors on the east side. The table setup was a little chaotic, with the display stands not quite level, which meant the carved pumpkins were going to list sideways and tip if someone looked at them the wrong way. I straightened two of them as I walked past, then caught myself and made myself stop, because I didn’t work here and this was a vacation, or the beginning of one, or the beginning of something I didn’t have a word for yet.

I signed up for the contest because it was there, and I had forty minutes until the next thing on my handwritten itinerary, and carving pumpkins sounded like exactly the kind of low-stakes activity that could convince my nervous system that I wasn’t in crisis.

They gave me a medium-sized pumpkin, a set of carving tools, and a spot at the table next to a woman who was doing something genuinely ambitious with a moon and a deer silhouette. I looked at my pumpkin for a moment and then started carving a very simple maple leaf because I’d looked at enough maples in the last six hours that it felt like an honest response.

I was twenty minutes in, the leaf coming along better than I’d expected, when I looked up, and he was there.

Not at the tree line anymore. Here. Six feet to my right, leaning against the booth’s back post with his coffee, watching the contest in the same way he’d watched the festival—systematic, quiet, cataloguing something.

He was bigger up close. Not in a way that was intimidating—in a way that made you aware of the specific dimensions of the space around him, the way you were aware of a mountain when you were standing near one.

I looked at him. He was looking at the display table, not at me.

“You watch crowds the same way I plan events,” I said.

His eyes moved to me. Not startled—nothing about him suggested startled was in his range. Just redirected, like a lens adjusting focus.

“Sorry?” he said.

“You were at the tree line twenty minutes ago doing the same thing. Counting something.” I turned back to my pumpkin and made a careful cut along the leaf’s stem. “I’m not criticizing. I do it too. Old habit.”

A pause. He looked at the display table again.

“Old habit,” he said, like he was agreeing to a diagnosis.

“You don’t have to explain it.” I held up the pumpkin and checked the leaf’s symmetry. “I was an event coordinator for six years. You stop being able to turn it off.”

“Were,” he said.

I glanced at him. He was looking at me now with an attention that was careful enough to be interesting.

“Were,” I confirmed. “Recent past tense. Very recent.” I set the pumpkin down and extended my hand across the table. “Babs Mills.”

He looked at my hand for a fraction of a second before he took it. His grip was what I expected—firm, brief, calibrated. His hand was warm despite the October air, and there were calluses on his palm in the places that said he worked with his hands for something other than keyboards.

“Fletcher,” he said. And then, after another of those small pauses: “Morrisson.”

Like he’d had to decide to give me the last name.

I found that completely fascinating and made myself not say so.

“Are you local, Fletcher Morrisson?”

“Working on it,” he said.

I waited, but that was apparently the complete answer. I turned back to my pumpkin. The maple leaf was almost done, and it was, objectively, a good maple leaf. Simple but accurate, the lobes correctly proportioned, the stem curving the way a stem actually curved.

“That’s good,” he said.

I looked up. He was looking at the pumpkin.

“Thank you.”

“Most people don’t get the lobe count right.”

“Most people don’t spend six hours driving through peak maple season,” I said. “I had reference material.”

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile—more like an acknowledgment that a smile was a theoretical possibility.

The contest judge came around five minutes later, and I won second place, which came with a ribbon and a jar of local honey. I looked at the ribbon and then at Fletcher, who was still at his post and had watched the whole thing with the same steady attention he brought to everything. I don’t know what came over me, but I made my way over to him.

“You should have won,” he said.

“The moon-and-deer was objectively more ambitious.”

“Ambitious isn’t the same as accurate,” he said.

I held up the honey. “Come get cider with me. I’m buying.”

The pause this time was longer. Something moved behind his eyes—not reluctance exactly, more like calculation, like he was running a quick assessment on the proposal and its variables.

“One cup,” he said.

We went to get cider. He drank his and said six words over the course of twenty minutes, and every one of them landed with more weight than the sentences of men who talked constantly.

He did not fidget. He did not check his phone. He stood beside me at the cider booth with the contained stillness of someone who had learned to be comfortable in silence, not because he was running from conversation, but because he’d been in environments where silence was a professional requirement and it had left a mark.

I told him about the north quadrant bottleneck—the way the pumpkin contest placement was creating a dead end that would back up foot traffic within the hour. He listened. Not politely listening—actually listening, tracking the logic of it, and when I stopped, he said: “You’d move the contest to the south end, anchor the loop past the food vendors.”

“Exactly,” I said.

He said nothing else. Just nodded once, like the problem was settled.

“You’ve planned events,” I said.

“I’ve had to move people efficiently through complex environments,” he said. “Different application.”

I looked at him. “What kind of environments?”

He drank his cider and looked at the crowd.

There was a commotion to my left, a little kid dropping a toy and when I looked back at him, he was gone.

I hadn’t heard him leave.

I stood there for a moment with the cold paper cup and the honey and the ribbon, looking at the space where he’d been, trying to decide if I was disappointed.

I was definitely disappointed.

I looked at the tree line.

He wasn’t there either.

I went to find the Ridge Roll.

Keep Reading

Hey babes,

She just quit her job, packed a storage unit, and drove six hours to Bitterroot Ridge with absolutely no plan. He’s working a protection detail he can’t talk about, at a small-town Harvest Festival, watching a crowd for a threat that’s very real.

Babs Mills clocks him in under three minutes — the guy at the tree line, “counting something” — and does what she does best: walks over and asks about it.

Fletcher Morrisson has nine words in his daily vocabulary. He uses one of them to give her his last name, like it costs him something. It does.

Then a storm rolls in early, a mountain trail turns dangerous, and the only shelter for miles is a line cabin that’s about to become the most complicated week of both their lives.

✔️ Small-town, forced proximity (one storm, one line cabin)

✔️ Secret bodyguard hero protecting a witness at the festival

✔️ Grumpy/sunshine, opposites-attract banter

✔️ Curvy, confident heroine who never needs rescuing

✔️ Fall festival, Bitterroot Ridge world-building

“I’ve never carved anything for someone before.”

Autumn Mountain Man is now available for preorder.

Preorder Now!

Guess what Fletcher’s carving out of that apple wood — comment below.

Peyton

xo

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Hey babes,

My story Tied with the Bear is included in this awesome paranormal romance anthology!

Lunar Seductions brings together nine steamy tales of supernatural desire, dangerous attraction, and romance that refuses to play by mortal rules.

Lose yourself among shifters, monsters, psychics, goddesses, and other creatures of the night. Meet lovers bound by fate, trapped by circumstance, divided by old grudges, or drawn together despite every reason to stay apart.

There are secrets to uncover, enemies to tempt, boundaries to cross, and more than a few teeth and claws waiting in the dark.

Give in to temptation.

The moon won’t tell.

Including stories by:

• Stephanie Morris - USA Today bestselling author

• Charmaine Louise Shelton

• Nadine D. Price

• Danika LaRue

• Kiera Rose

• Peyton Lawson

• Celia Breslin

• Ravyn Wilde

• Ryan L Reeve

  Preorder Now!

Peyton

xo

Books from Friends

FREEBIES

BUY NOW!

Hey babes,

I’m so excited this book is out! Don’t forget to leave a review once you’ve read it, and stay tuned for the companion ‘acul-de-sac’ story Holiday Heat with a Mountan Man.

Peyton

xo

Chapter 1

MAGGIE

The sign said Crescent Row in burnt wood letters on a cedar post, and below it, someone had added a smaller sign in handpainted capitals: FIRE PIT: FRIDAY & SATURDAY — COMMUNAL. NO DIBS. THIS MEANS EVERYONE.

A second, newer addition in different handwriting: Yes, Gary, that means you too.

I didn’t know who Gary was. There was also no Cabin 6 and why did Gary need his own signage? The mystery of Gary would have to wait.

I pulled my SUV through the gap in the trees and stopped.

Five log cabins arranged in a loose horseshoe around a central clearing. Real logs, not the decorative kind — these were the dark, settled wood of structures that had weathered multiple decades and intended to weather several more. Each one had a covered porch, a cord of wood stacked to one side, and window boxes that still held the last of summer’s flowers, red and gold against the weathered wood.

Between them, at the center of the clearing: the fire pit. Stone-ringed, substantial, with five Adirondack chairs arranged around it in the slightly asymmetric way of furniture that had been moved and moved again until it found the configuration everyone could live with.

This was it.

Forty-four years old, twenty years of managing other people’s conflicts for a company that had handed me a very generous cheque and a two-year non-compete and essentially said: go enjoy your life. Eight months of a downtown Calgary apartment where I’d been trying to figure out what enjoying my life looked like. And then the memory of a place I’d come to as a child, summers with my grandmother, the mountains doing that thing they did where they convinced you that anything complicated could be simplified if you just stood in front of something large enough.

Greypaw. Crescent Row. Cabin 1.

I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the specific September silence of a mountain valley on a long weekend — the sound of a place that had been here before the noise and would be here after.

Then I got out and started unpacking.

The cabin was everything the listing had suggested and several things it hadn’t mentioned, all of them good. The main room had ceilings high enough that the space felt generous despite the compact footprint, a stone fireplace that took up most of the north wall, and windows that framed the mountains like paintings someone had thought very carefully about. The kitchen was small but real. The bedroom was under the eaves, with a skylight positioned to catch the morning light.

I put the kettle on and carried my first box in.

I was on the third box when I heard it — a sound from the direction of the woodpile, something being shifted with efficient economy, and I looked up to find a man had materialized in my peripheral vision with the quietness of someone who’d lived near forests long enough to move like one.

Late forties. Broad through the shoulders in the way of men who worked outdoors rather than worked out. Dark hair going silver at the temples, cut practically rather than stylishly. He wore a Parks Canada jacket with the ease of a second skin and was carrying three logs stacked in the crook of his arm without apparent effort.

He stopped when he saw me looking.

“Cabin 1?” he said.

“Yes. Maggie Rogers.”

He nodded once, a greeting compressed to its most efficient form. “Jasper Morley. Cabin 2.” He glanced at the boxes on my porch. “You need help with those.”

It wasn’t a question, quite. More an observation he was waiting to see if I’d dispute.

“I’m fine,” I said. “But thank you.”

Another nod. He turned toward Cabin 2, his logs, and whatever he’d been doing before I arrived.

“The schedule’s on the board,” he said over his shoulder. “Fire pit Fridays and Saturdays, communal. The rest of the week, first come.”

“I saw the sign.”

“There are more inside. The previous tenant was very thorough.”

He disappeared onto his porch and through his door, and I stood holding a box of kitchen things looking after him for a moment before I remembered I had six more boxes in the car.

The kettle whistled.

I went inside and made tea and stood at my kitchen window, looking at the clearing and the fire pit and the four other cabins, one of which contained a man who had delivered all necessary information about shared amenities and departed in under ninety seconds.

“Perfect,” I said to no one in particular.

I meant it, genuinely, about all of it.

Even the bulletin board, which I examined after tea and which contained, in addition to the fire pit rules, a hand-drawn map of the communal woodstore, a schedule for the shared laneway snowplowing that wouldn’t be relevant for another few weeks, a notice about a harvest market in town on the third weekend of September, and a card from someone called Nora from two years ago saying she was moving and wished everyone well and please remember to respect the composting bins.

There were no composting bins.

I added a note: Is there a composting situation? — Cabin 1 (new)

Labour Day weekend. The mountains going amber at the edges of the green. A fire pit I wasn’t ready to approach yet.

Forty-four years old and starting over.

It was, I decided, exactly the right time.

Keep Reading

Buy or Borrow on Amazon

Hey babes,

Isla Montgomery does not get rescued. She’s a corporate whistleblower with three years of receipts, a high-profile trial coming, and a threat sitting in her inbox she refuses to open. What she needs isn’t a hero. It’s three days off-grid, no cell service, until she testifies.

Clark Baxter is what she gets. Former special ops, seven years running protection details, and a record he intends to keep: he has never, not once, lost a client. A man of granite and three-word sentences who built his own cabin on Bitterroot Ridge with his own two hands.

It has one bed.

Then the storm rolls in. ❄️

What happens over those three days is the slowest, surest burn I’ve written — a man who answers everything in one syllable learning to say the true thing instead of the safe thing, and a woman who’s worn her armor so long she’d forgotten what it feels like to be handled like she’s capable and wanted. He starts carving something the first morning. He won’t tell her what. (You’ll figure it out before she does.)

If you love:

🪵 a protective alpha bodyguard with a no-lose record

❄️ forced proximity + one bed + a snowstorm that locks them in

🔥 an age-gap slow burn with open-door heat

✂️ a hero who carves what he means to keep

💪 a heroine who never needs saving and won’t pretend otherwise

…this one’s yours.

It’s a complete standalone, so you can dive straight in — but if you’ve been with the Bitterroot Ridge Bodyguards, you’ll catch Jax Mercer pulling exactly the kind of strings Jax pulls. 😏

Talk soon,

Peyton

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Hey babes,

Elliot Burns spends his summers the same way every year—at his uncle’s fishing lodge in Bitterroot Ridge, working with his hands, swimming in cold mountain water, and pretending his real life back in Spokane doesn’t feel empty. Teaching phys ed pays the bills. The mountains keep him sane.

Until Patricia “Pat” Lyndon shows up.

Pat is all curves, confidence, and a throaty laugh that turns heads wherever she goes. Everyone flirts with her. She enjoys it. But when the heat lingers after sunset and the lake goes glassy and dark, it’s Elliot she meets—night after night.

Cooling off turns into stolen touches. Moonlit swims turn into something hotter. And the line between “just summer” and forever starts to blur.

→ Read Soaked with the Mountain Man Free in Kindle Unlimited.

Grab it, fall in, and if you love it, a quick review tells the next reader it’s worth their night. 💛

Peyton

xo

Featured Books

Preorder Now!

Hey babes,

Maggie Rogers is forty-four, freshly retired, and done with other people’s drama. Crescent Row’s cozy log cabin was supposed to be her fresh start — quiet mornings, mountain views, and absolutely no one needing anything from her.

Then Jasper Morley from Cabin 2 tells her the woodstore system is fine as-is.

It is not fine.

He’s been on the Row for eight years. He’s calm, capable, and completely unbothered by her very reasonable reorganization suggestions. He also brings enough beer for everyone on fire pit nights, fixes things before anyone notices they’re broken, and looks at her like she’s the most interesting thing to happen to Crescent Row in years.

She’s keeping a list. It’s getting long.

Jasper has a secret. So does the whole town. And Maggie spent twenty years in HR learning to spot things people are trying to hide.

She’s getting warm.

Oops! I Fell for the Bear Next Door is a steamy standalone bear shifter mountain man romance with laugh-out-loud banter, slow-burn tension, and a found community that makes minding your own business completely impossible.

Perfect for fans of grumpy/sunshine, neighbors-to-lovers, and over-40 fated mates.

Peyton

xo

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Deutsch 🇩🇪

Hallo liebe Leser!

Großartige Neuigkeiten! Die Übersetzung all meiner Bücher ist abgeschlossen! Die ersten fünf Bände jeder Reihe sind bereits online, die nächsten fünf folgen, sobald ich die Cover gestaltet und sichergestellt habe, dass die englischen Originalcover die jeweilige Autorenreihe, an der ich mitgewirkt habe, korrekt wiedergeben. Vielen Dank für Ihre Geduld!

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Français 🇫🇷

Bonne nouvelle! La traduction de tous mes livres est terminée! Les 5 premiers tomes de chaque série sont en lignes et les 5 suivants seront téléversés dès que j’aurai eu la chance de créer des couvertures, puis que les couvertures originales anglaises reflètent les séries multi-auteurs auxquelles j’ai participé. Merci de votre patience!

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Italiano 🇮🇹

Questa settimana inizierà a lavorare con noi una nuova traduttrice, che si occuperà della serie Bitterroot Ridge! Restate sintonizzati per ulteriori aggiornamenti.

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Montemare Edizioni

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Español 🇪🇸

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