"Most people aren't broke graphic designers hiding from their ex in their foster brother's cabin." Her voice turns businesslike. "Let's meet to discuss the details. Tomorrow? Darlene's Diner at noon?"
"I don't do public places if I can avoid them."
She sighs dramatically. "Fine. Your place or mine, husband?"
The way she says "husband" does something strange to my stomach. "My cabin. I'll text you the address."
"Perfect. Oh, and Jared?"
"Yeah?"
"If this is some weird serial killer thing, just know that Ridge taught me to shoot when I was twelve and I have excellent aim."
I actually laugh at that, surprising myself. "Not a serial killer. Just a desperate man with a dying aunt."
"Well, when you put it that way, how could a girl resist? See you tomorrow, Mountain Man."
She hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone. What the hell just happened? Did I really just hire my best friend's foster sister to be my fake wife?
My phone buzzes again. A text from Jennifer.
Jennifer: By the way, what do fake husbands typically make for lunch? I prefer sandwiches, but I'm open to suggestions. Nothing with pickles though. Pickles are an abomination.
I find myself smiling as I type back.
Me:I'll make sure the abominations stay in the jar.
I release a sigh of relief that quickly convert into anticipation. Now to fill Aunt Beverly in on the plan.What am I getting myself into?
CHAPTER TWO
JEN
Istare at the address Jared texted me, then back at the winding dirt road that supposedly leads to his cabin. My ancient Honda Civic isn't exactly built for mountain terrain, but it's gotten me this far.
"Come on, Betsy," I pat the dashboard encouragingly. "Just a little farther."
The car responds with an ominous rattling noise that I choose to interpret as enthusiasm.
I still can't believe I agreed to this. Pretending to be married to Jared Calloway for two weeks? The Mountain Hermit of Whisper Vale? Ridge is going to have a coronary when he finds out. But twelve thousand dollars would solve a lot of problems right now. Like the fact that my ex boyfriend cleaned out our joint savings account before I could remove my name from it. Or that three of my biggest design clients dropped me after said ex lied and told them I was stealing his work.
Starting over at twenty-eight wasn't part of my five-year plan, but here I am. Living in my foster brother's sparecabin, rebuilding my portfolio, and now apparently getting fake married for Christmas.
The cabin appears around the next bend, and I nearly drive off the road. Holy shit. This isn't a cabin. It's a lodge. Two stories of natural timber and stone with a wraparound porch and floor to ceiling windows that must offer spectacular views of the valley below. Nothing like the small, cozy place Ridge owns.
I park next to a massive black pickup truck that could probably eat my Honda for breakfast and still have room for dessert. Taking a deep breath, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My dark curls are doing that wild thing they do in the mountain air, but there's not much I can do about it. I apply a fresh coat of cherry lip balm and straighten my sweater.
"Time to meet your husband, Jen," I mutter to myself.
The moment I step out of the car, the front door opens. And there he stands. Jared Calloway in the flesh, looking even more imposing than I remember from my brief visit to his store yesterday.
Ridge always described him as "intense," which I now realize was a massive understatement. He's tall, at least six foot three, with shoulders that fill the entire doorframe. Dark hair, just long enough to show a hint of curl. A jawline that could cut glass, currently covered in stubble that's somewhere between deliberate scruff and an actual beard. Eyes so blue they're visible even from this distance.
And that scar. A jagged line that runs from his right cheekbone down toward his jaw. It should make him look menacing, but somehow it just adds to his whole rugged mountain man aesthetic.
The butterflies in my stomach are purely professional. Obviously. This is a business arrangement, not a date.
"You found it," he calls out, his deep voice carrying across the yard.
