Page 17 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

"Say please."

His eyes narrow. But the corner of his mouth moves. "Move your suitcases. Please."

"Where should I put them?"

"You know where."

"Maybe I want to hear you say it."

The chair scrapes back. He stands, all six foot four of him, crosses to my side of the table in two strides, and bends down with both hands planted on the armrests of my chair, caging me in. His face is inches from mine. Coffee on his breath. Morning stubble catching the light.

"My room. My closet. My side of the bed, which is now your side, because I don't care what side I sleep on as long as you're in it." A kiss. Brief. Hard. "Clear enough?"

"Crystal."

The afternoon bringsthe kind of October warmth that Montana grants like a favor, knowing it'll take it back by November. Golden light through amber leaves. Air that smells like pine and cold stone and the last of the season's wildflowers clinging to the meadow below the cabin.

Hunter is in the workshop. The steady rhythm of his hand plane carries through the open door, smoothing a plank of reclaimed timber that he's been shaping into something he won'ttell me about. Every time I ask, he says "You'll see" in a tone that does not invite follow-up questions.

My phone rings while I'm stringing the fence section on the eastern boundary. Actual ringing, not a text. A number from Ohio.

"Hello?"

"Nora Louise Chambers, if you don't tell me everything right now, I'm getting on a plane."

Dani. My best friend from Columbus, who moved to Portland six months before I left Ohio and whose opinion on my decision to answer a mail-order bride listing ranged from "absolutely insane" to "honestly, maybe the most sane thing you've ever done" depending on the day of the week.

"Hi, Dani."

"Don't 'Hi, Dani' me. Bette texted me. She has my number because I gave it to her when you first agreed to this whole arrangement in case of emergency, and apparently you sleeping with the mountain man constitutes an emergency in her book. Her exact words were 'she's in his bed and he slept past five, this is not a drill.'"

The fence wire tightens under the pliers. "Bette needs to learn boundaries."

"Bette is an angel of chaos and I adore her. Now talk. Is he everything the profile said?"

The profile. Quiet. Hardworking. Values self-sufficiency. Owns and operates a sustainable timber business. Enjoys solitude.

"The profile was written by his sister. He didn't know about any of it until I showed up."

"I know that part. Tell me the part where you're in his bed."

The pliers pause. Through the trees, the workshop door is visible. Hunter steps into the doorway, shirtless because the afternoon warmth and the physical work have made clothingoptional, and leans against the frame to drink from a water bottle. Sweat tracks down his chest. Sawdust catches in the hair on his forearms. The scar on his hand catches the light.

"Dani."

"Yeah?"

"He made me coffee. Two mugs. Not one. He's been making one for eight years, and this morning he made two without thinking about it."

Silence on the line. Then, quietly: "Oh, Nora."

"He reads forestry management books by candlelight. He grinds his own coffee beans because the store in town doesn't carry his roast. He hasn't let anyone close since his divorce, and he told me about it on a mountain while I was holding paint cans. He built every piece of furniture in this cabin with his own hands, and the dining table has grain patterns that he sanded for so long the wood looks like water."

"Nora."

"He kissed me on the ridge three days ago. Just my cheek. Flour on my face. And his hand was shaking."

"Stop. I'm going to cry at work."