"Nothing that changes the essential agreement. Just additional protections for both parties. I've emailed them to you."
"I'll review them."
"If they're acceptable, I'd like to proceed quickly. My situation is time-sensitive as well."
Another pause, longer this time. "Care to share what that situation is?"
"Not particularly."
A sound that might almost be a chuckle. "Fair enough. How quickly were you thinking?"
"I can be ready to move in tomorrow if the paperwork is finished today."
"Tomorrow." He seems to consider. "That's acceptable. I'll contact Silas. Come to the courthouse at noon. Bring identification and whatever you need for the next month."
"I'll be there."
"And Judith?"
"Yes?"
"Pack practical clothes. The mountain doesn't care about fashion."
I bite back a sharp retort about assumptions. "I'm not as helpless as you seem to think, Mr. Wallace."
"We'll see." The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, torn between irritation and amusement. The man certainly has confidence. We'll see indeed.
I spend the day gathering supplies. Winter clothing, toiletries, enough books to survive isolation, and my work laptop. Whatever happens, I still have my remote PR job to maintain. Sierra calls as I'm packing.
"Are you really doing this?" she asks, concern evident in her voice.
"I don't have a choice. Marc's father has already filed the initial paperwork. If I don't have proof of marriage by the end of the week, they'll start proceedings."
"I know." She sighs. "I just wish there was another way. What if this mountain guy is dangerous?"
"The background check was clean. And he's too concerned about his property to risk legal trouble." I fold a thick sweater. "Besides, it's only for a month."
"A lot can happen in a month, Jude."
"I'll be fine. I've handled worse than a grumpy furniture maker with control issues."
"Just promise you'll stay in touch. Daily check-ins or I'm calling in the cavalry."
"Promise."
After we hang up, I stare at my neatly packed suitcases. The plan does seem insane, but the alternative—financial ruin and a destroyed reputation—is worse.
The courthousein Crimson Hollow is a small, tidy building of red brick and white columns. I arrive at precisely noon the following day, wheeling one suitcase, with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. Dario waits at the top of the steps, wearing the same intense expression as two days ago but freshly shaved, his dark hair combed back neatly. He wears a charcoal button-down that stretches across broad shoulders, and dark jeans. He looks less like a mountain hermit and more like a GQ model playing one in a fashion spread.
"You're punctual." He says it like he's noting a surprising virtue.
"I value other people's time as much as my own."
He nods once, accepting this. "Silas is inside with the paperwork. Did you bring ID?"
I pat my handbag. "Everything required."
