Page 16 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

"Forget the bread."

"Hunter Marsh. You ate three slices yesterday and told me it was the best thing you'd tasted in years."

"That was before I tasted you."

Heat. Instant. From my chest to my ears. His hand moves from my stomach, sliding up to cup my breast, thumb dragging across the nipple until it tightens under his touch. My back arches into him, pressing my ass against his hips, where the hard length of him is very much awake.

"You said that on purpose."

"I say everything on purpose." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Haven't you figured that out yet?"

An hour later,after a shower that took three times longer than necessary because Hunter apparently has very strong opinionsabout the order in which soap should be applied to my body, coffee steams in two mugs on the kitchen table.

Two mugs. Not one. He poured for both of us without commenting on it, setting mine at the spot where I sit every morning, his at the other end, and the domestic simplicity of that gesture, two mugs of coffee at a table built for one, makes my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

The bread from yesterday is sliced thick on a cutting board between us. Butter. Honey from a jar that looks handmade, with a label that reads GRIZZLY RIDGE APIARIES in blocky handwriting.

"Local?" The honey jar turns in my hands.

"Frank Morrison keeps bees about fifteen miles south. Trades honey for firewood every fall." A pause. "He'll want to meet you."

The casualness of it catches me.He'll want to meet you.Present tense. Future-facing. As if my presence here is no longer a question but a fact that needs to be communicated to the neighbors.

"Does the whole town know about the mail-order bride situation?"

"Bette told Maggie at the diner. Maggie told everyone else. So yes. The entire population of Grizzly Ridge is aware that my sister submitted a profile without my consent and a woman from Ohio showed up with two suitcases." His jaw works. "They've been placing bets on how long I'd let you stay."

"What are the odds?"

"Last I heard, Frank Morrison has fifty dollars on three days. Maggie's got a hundred on permanent."

"Maggie sounds smart."

That almost-smile. It reaches further now than it did a week ago. Nearly breaks through to the surface before he pulls it back. But the eyes give him away. Hazel gone warm with morning lightand the particular contentment of a man who woke up with a woman in his bed and is discovering that he doesn't hate it.

The phone buzzes again. Not Bette this time. A number I don't recognize.

This is Maggie from the diner. Bette gave me your number. If he's being difficult, send him to me and I'll sort him out. Also, my pie is better than anything he can cook and you should come try it. Bring him if you must.

Me:

Hi Maggie. He's not being difficult anymore. I'd love to try the pie.

Honey, if he's not being difficult, you've already won. The man once argued with a fence post for fifteen minutes because it wasn't plumb. Wednesday is cherry. Come hungry.

The phone goes away. Across the table, Hunter is watching me with an expression I'm starting to recognize. The cataloging look. Taking inventory. Processing information. Filing it under whatever internal system he uses to organize the world.

"What?"

"Your suitcases are still in the guest room."

The statement sits between the coffee mugs and the bread and the honey jar with Frank Morrison's handwriting. Simple. Factual. Loaded.

"They are."

"Move them."

Not a question. Not a request. An instruction delivered with the same quiet authority he uses when marking trees. This onestays. This one goes. This one gets a yellow stripe because it matters.