Page 5 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

Another shift. That almost-reassessment again. "Why did you say yes?"

The coffee is perfect. Rich, full, no bitterness. Of course it is.

"Because the profile described a man who builds things with his own hands, lives on a mountain he loves, runs a business his grandfather started, and hasn't let anyone close in a long time." A sip. The mug is warm and solid. "And I've spent the last three years living in a city that was too loud, working a job that made me smaller, engaged to a man who wanted me to be quieter andless opinionated and generally less myself. So when I read about a life that was the opposite of everything I was running from, I called the agency."

Hunter's expression doesn't change. But his arms uncross. Slowly. The way a door opens when you stop pushing and just wait.

"Engaged," he says.

"Past tense. Very past. Ended it fourteen months ago."

"Why?"

"Because he proposed to a version of me that didn't exist, and I got tired of pretending she did."

The woodstove crackles. Outside, the wind pushes through the pines with a long, low exhale that sounds like the mountain breathing.

"That profile said I was looking for a wife."

"It did."

"I'm not."

"Your sister seems to disagree."

His jaw works. The muscle there flexes once, twice, and it's absurd that a jaw muscle is what my attention catches on, but there it is. Everything about this man is oversized. His hands. His shoulders. His stubbornness. Even his silence takes up more space than most people's conversation.

"Bette doesn't get to make that decision for me."

"No," I agree. "She doesn't. But she's not the one who drove eleven hours. That was me. My decision. Made with clear eyes and a fully functioning brain." The mug goes down on the table. "So here's what I'm proposing. Not marriage. Not yet. Not until you've decided whether you can stand having another person in your house for more than twenty minutes without developing a rash."

That jaw again. But something else too, at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the place where a smile would go if he ever let one through.

"I stay. One week. I pull my weight, I don't get in your way, and at the end of seven days, you tell me to leave or you ask me to stay longer. Your decision. No pressure from Bette, no pressure from the agency, no pressure from me."

"And if I tell you to leave right now?"

"Then I get in that rental car, I drive to the nearest town, I find a motel, and I figure out the rest from there." My chin lifts. Not a challenge. Just honesty. "But you won't."

His eyes narrow. "You're sure about that."

"You made me coffee. You didn't have to do that. A man who wants a woman off his property doesn't grind fresh beans and heat the water to a specific temperature." The mug lifts again. "This is a man who's annoyed but curious. And curiosity is all I need."

The silence that follows is long enough for me to hear the fire pop twice and a bird call something sharp from the tree line. Hunter Marsh stands in his kitchen, looking at me with an expression I can't fully read. Irritation, yes. But something underneath it. Something that tracked over my mouth back in the driveway and is now very carefully avoiding a repeat offense.

"Guest room is upstairs," he says. "End of the hall. Bathroom is on the left. Towels are in the linen cabinet. Dinner's at six. I eat early."

"Okay."

"I'm up at four thirty. The saw starts at first light. If you're a late sleeper, bring earplugs."

"I'm not a late sleeper."

One more look. Long. Thorough. Starting at my boots and traveling up with the unhurried assessment of a man who is noticing everything he's noticing and is deeply unhappy about it.

Then he picks up his gloves from the counter, pulls them on, and walks out the back door without another word.

The door clicks shut. Through the kitchen window, his broad back moves toward the workshop, flannel stretched tight across shoulders that look like they could carry the whole ridge if it asked nicely.