DARIO
The workshop attached to the east side of my cabin has always been my sanctuary. A place where wood becomes art under my hands, where the world narrows to grain patterns and precise measurements. Today, though, the usual peace eludes me.
I run my palm over the walnut slab I've been shaping for a client's dining table, feeling the smooth surface beneath calloused fingers. Normally, this would center me. Today, all I can think about is the woman currently occupying my guest bedroom.
My wife.
The word sits strange in my mind, foreign and uncomfortable. Judith Mars Wallace has been in my house for exactly eighteen hours, and already my carefully ordered existence feels tilted on its axis. Dinner last night was a stilted affair of polite conversation and careful distance. She'd appeared precisely at seven, as promised, dressed in slim black pants and a deep blue sweater that made her brown skin glow inthe firelight. Her natural curls were pulled back in a loose knot that exposed the elegant curve of her neck.
I'd cooked steaks, simple and straightforward. She'd complimented the food with genuine appreciation but maintained that polished city-girl reserve. Every movement measured, every word considered. A woman accustomed to boardrooms and business negotiations.
A woman entirely out of place on my mountain.
The table saw whines as I guide the walnut through, focusing on the precise cut to distract myself from thoughts of my temporary wife. It doesn't work. My mind keeps returning to the slight widening of her eyes when she'd asked about internet access and I'd explained the limitations of satellite service during storms.
"The connection's intermittent in bad weather," I'd told her over dinner. "Sometimes goes out completely."
"For how long?" The first crack in her composure.
"Depends on the storm. Could be hours. Could be days."
She'd recovered quickly, but not before I caught the flash of panic. "I see. And you didn't think to mention this before bringing me up here?"
"It's in the contract. Section four, paragraph three." I'd watched her over the rim of my whiskey glass. "The section you initialed about 'accepting the limitations of mountain living.'"
Her perfect lips had pressed together briefly. "I assumed that meant chopping wood and heating water, not professional isolation."
"Bad assumption."
The memory of her narrowed eyes brings an unwelcome smile to my face now. The woman doesn't back down easily. I respect that, even as it complicates things.
I set down my tools, dusting sawdust from my hands. The morning has slipped away, and I've made less progress thanusual. Unacceptable. I need to regain my focus, reestablish my routine despite the disruption of having Judith in my space.
Through the workshop window, I notice the snow starting to fall more heavily. The forecast had warned about a major system moving in, but it seems to be arriving earlier than predicted. I should finish up here and make sure we're prepared.
I store my tools, each returning to its designated spot. The walnut table will have to wait. I double-check that everything is secure before heading toward the connecting door that leads directly into the main house.
The aroma of fresh coffee hits me immediately, followed by something else. Cinnamon? I follow the scent to the kitchen, stopping short at the entrance.
Judith stands at the counter, her back to me, swaying slightly to music playing softly from her phone. She's shed the polished facade from yesterday, dressed now in faded jeans and a soft gray hoodie. Her hair falls free in a riot of natural curls that bounce with her movements as she arranges something on a baking sheet.
For a moment, I just watch her, struck by the incongruity of this elegant woman making herself at home in my kitchen. The domestic scene sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through me that I immediately suppress.
She turns, finally sensing my presence, and jumps slightly. "Jesus! Make some noise when you sneak up on people."
"It's my house," I remind her, moving past her to the coffee pot. "I don't sneak."
"You move like a predator." She steps aside to give me space, but the kitchen isn't large enough to avoid brushing against her. The brief contact is electric.
"What are you making?" I nod toward the baking sheet.
"Cinnamon rolls." She gestures to the neat rows of dough. "I stress bake."
"And what are you stressed about, wife?" I can't resist testing the word, watching her reaction.
She doesn't disappoint. Her spine straightens almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring. "Being trapped on a mountain with unreliable internet and a stranger I just married might qualify as stress-inducing, husband."
I pour coffee into a mug, allowing myself a small smile. "Fair point."
