"What about Jordyn?" I ask, referring to the lawyer's wife. "Couldn't she write up something about the county to buy us more time?"
"She's on maternity leave." His expression softens momentarily. "And even if she weren't, this isn't something that can be delayed. The timeline was established when your grandfather passed."
I press my palms against my eyes, the cold dirt grounding me as I absorb this clusterfuck of a situation. Five weeks to find a woman willing to marry me, a man who lives alone on a mountain and likes it that way. A man with particular needs and expectations that most women these days find too demanding, too controlling.
"I need to think." I finally say, lowering my hands.
"Don't think too long." Silas tucks the documents away. "I'll draw up the paperwork for when you find someone, but the clock is ticking."
I watch him walk back to his Jeep, my mind already churning through the short list of women I know well enough to even consider for this arrangement. None of them would be willing to enter a marriage of convenience, even temporarily. None of them would understand what this land means to me.
The Jeep disappears down the winding road, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and the vast stretch of wilderness I might lose. Fuck that. I'll find a solution. I always do.
Back at the cabin, I strip off my dirt-streaked clothes and step into the shower, letting scalding water pound against my muscles. Steam fills the bathroom as I scrub away the grime and try to wash the tension from my body. The mirror fogs completely, which is just as well. I don't need to see the storm brewing in my expression.
Clean and dressed in fresh jeans and a black henley, I move to my office. The space is meticulous, every item in its place.Control in my surroundings helps clear my mind. I boot up my laptop and stare at the screen.
A wife. I need a wife.
Not a real one. I don't have time for the real thing, with its messy emotions and complicated expectations. I need a business arrangement. Someone who understands exactly what they're getting into and what they're getting out of it. Someone who won't expect anything beyond what I'm willing to give.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, an idea taking shape. I open a private browser window and navigate to a classified ad site.
Temporary mail-order bride needed.Business arrangement only. Five weeks, generous compensation.
I stare at the words,weighing my options, which are precisely none. If I want to keep my land, I need to find a woman willing to marry me on paper.
After adding a few more details and my secure email, I hit publish before I can talk myself out of it. Then I close the laptop and pour myself two fingers of whiskey, knocking it back in one burning swallow.
The thought of sharing my space with anyone, even temporarily, sets my teeth on edge. But the alternative is unthinkable.
The next morningbrings snow flurries and three responses to my ad. Two are obvious scams. The third seems legitimate, from a woman named Judith Mars who claims to need a temporary marriage arrangement as badly as I do. Her message is concise, intelligent, and direct. No emotional baggage, no romantic expectations. Just a clear statement of mutual benefit.
I respond immediately, suggesting we meet at The Velvet Antler. Neutral ground in Crimson Hollow, where I can assess whether she's someone I could tolerate sharing space with for a month.
She agrees to meet in two days.Perfect.That gives me time to prepare the cabin's guest room and draft a contract outlining exactly what this arrangement will entail. No surprises, no misunderstandings. Everything laid out in black and white.
By the timeI drive into town for our meeting, I've convinced myself this might actually work. A business transaction. Simple, clean, temporary.
The Velvet Antler is quiet on a Wednesday afternoon, just a few locals nursing drinks at the bar. I choose a corner table with a clear view of the door and order a bourbon neat. Then I wait,watching the entrance with the patience of a man who spends most of his time alone in the wilderness.
At precisely three o'clock, the door swings open. A blast of cold air precedes a woman who immediately commands attention simply by existing. She's stunning in a way that makes my throat tighten, with rich brown skin and curves that the practical winter coat can't disguise. Her hair falls in tight natural curls around a face that belongs on magazine covers, not in my remote mountain cabin.
She scans the room, dark eyes sharp and assessing, before they land on me. Surprise or maybe disappointment flickers across her expression before she schools her features into a neutral mask and approaches my table.
"Dario Wallace?" Her voice is smooth and confident, with an educated East Coast lilt.
I rise slowly to my full height, noting how she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Good. "Judith Mars, I presume."
"Call me Judith." She extends a gloved hand, and I engulf it in mine, feeling delicate bones beneath soft leather.
"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from mine. It's not a request.
She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow, a subtle challenge flickering in her eyes, but takes the seat. "Straight to business, then."
"I don't see a reason to waste time with pleasantries." I take a slow sip of bourbon, using the moment to study her. Everything about her screams city. From her expensive boots to her manicured nails to the way she carries herself. This woman has never chopped wood or hunted her own dinner or spent a night without electricity.
She's exactly the type I avoid. The type who expects comfort and convenience. The type who wouldn't last a day on my mountain.
