Page 92 of Craved By the Mountain Man

“Maternal intuition.”

I grin and turn back to my laptop.

The cover design on my screen needs another hour before I send it to the author, and there are two promotional graphics waiting behind it.

My studio sits off the main cabin now, added during our first year of marriage. Big windows. Built-in shelves. More desk space than I know what to do with.

Gavin built most of it himself.

Normal husbands buy their wives anniversary jewelry. Mine added square footage.

Not that I’m complaining.

Wildwood has become home in ways I never expected.

I still do freelance covers and advertising, but half my work now seems to come from businesses around town. Menus. Posters. Logos. Holiday campaigns.

Three years ago, I broke into this cabin carrying everything I thought mattered in one backpack.

Now my life takes up several closets, an entire studio, and approximately eighty percent of Gavin’s patience.

Maybe ninety.

He comes up behind me and puts both hands on my shoulders.

“Enough.”

I glance up at him.

“I have work to finish.”

“You’ve been at it for hours.”

“So?”

“So you’re done.”

I turn slowly in my chair.

“You know I’m self-employed, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you’re not my boss.”

His mouth twitches.

“Good thing you’re my wife, then.”

I laugh.

His hand slides to the curve of my stomach.

The baby kicks.

Gavin freezes.

Every single time.