"Can't wait to meet all the neighbors. I have so many embarrassing stories to share about my husband."
"Jennifer."
"Sorry. Jen. Your loving wife who thinks you're just the dreamiest mountain man ever." I bat my eyelashes dramatically.
He sighs, but I catch the slight upward curve of his lips before he turns away. I'm getting to him. Breaking through that carefully constructed wall one crack at a time.
And that should feel like victory. Like progress toward our goal of convincing everyone we're happily married.
Instead it feels dangerous. Because each crack in his armor reveals something that draws me in deeper. The way his eyes crinkle when he almost smiles. The gentleness of his hands. The unexpected laugh that rumbled through his chest during our snowball fight.
I watch him move through his store, confident and competent, and acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding since that almost kiss by the fireplace.
I'm attracted to Jared Calloway. Not just physically, though that's certainly part of it. I'm attracted to his complexity. The gruff exterior that protects a thoughtful, generous interior. The man who special orders art supplies just because he overheard me mention them. Who cooks gourmet meals in a mountain cabin. Who carries the weight of his aunt's happiness on his broad shoulders.
This is bad. Very bad. Catching feelings for my fake husband wasn't part of our deal.
But as he turns and catches my eye across the store, something warm and electric passing between us, I realize it might already be too late to guard my heart.
CHAPTER FIVE
JARED
Five days into our fake marriage, and I'm in trouble.
Jennifer Walsh has invaded every corner of my carefully constructed solitude. Her belongings scattered throughout my cabin. Her scent lingering in rooms even when she's not there. Her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
And worst of all, I like it.
I stand at the kitchen window, watching her outside on the deck. She's set up her easel to capture the mountain view, bundled in one of my flannel shirts over her own sweater. It swallows her small frame, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands. Something possessive and primal stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothing.
This is getting complicated. Dangerous.
The past few days have established a routine of sorts. I wake early, exercise, and make coffee. Jennifer emerges mid morning, sleep rumpled and adorable, making straight for the coffee pot. We work separately during the day, me handling store business remotely, her designing in the office downstairs. We cook dinner together in the evenings, then talk by the fire until one of usremembers this is supposed to be temporary and creates some excuse to separate.
And every night, I lie awake on the couch downstairs, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she's doing in my bed upstairs.
Jennifer turns and catches me watching her through the window. She waves, smiling that bright smile that does strange things to my chest, then gestures for me to join her. I shouldn't. I have inventory reports to review. Orders to place. A hundred reasons to maintain distance.
I grab my coat and go outside.
"Come look at this," she says as soon as I step onto the deck. "I'm trying to capture that blue shadow effect on the snow, but I can't quite get it right."
I move behind her to examine the painting. It's good. Really good. She's captured the essence of the mountains in winter, the way the light plays across the snow covered peaks.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "You have real talent."
"Thanks." She tilts her head, studying her work critically. "But the shadows are still off. See how the actual snow has that bluish purple tint in the shadowed areas? I can't mix the right color."
She's right. I hadn't noticed that detail before, but now that she points it out, I see it clearly.
"Try adding more ultramarine to your purple," I suggest. "And a touch of that slate gray."
She looks up at me, surprise evident. "You know about color mixing?"
I shrug, suddenly self conscious. "My mother was a painter. Landscapes, mostly. I used to watch her work."
"You never mentioned that." She dabs her brush into the colors I suggested, testing the mixture on a corner of her canvas. "It's perfect. How did you know?"
