Page 27 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

Fair point.

The cabin renovation started in March. Tony and I framed the addition on weekends. He gives me grief the entire time, because that's how Tony processes things. Every joint, every measurement, every piece of lumber comes with commentary.

"You're building your girlfriend an office. That's adorable."

"It's practical."

"It's adorable, Reid. Lean into it."

But he shows up. Every Saturday. Brings breakfast burritos from the general store. Works until sundown. Doesn't miss a weekend.

That's Tony. He gave me hell for a solid month after the festival. Called me every name in both English and Italian. Then he bought me a beer, told me to stop looking so guilty, and said if he had to watch his sister fall for somebody, at least it was somebody he trusted to not screw it up.

"You screw it up, I'm still breaking your legs."

"Understood."

Now it's June. The office is finished. New kitchen's done. Ivy picked the countertops, which are some kind of butcher block she found through Piper Langston's vintage shop. She painted the office herself. Light blue. Her desk is in the corner under the window with a view of the pines.

The pie ribbon from the Harvest Festival is still on the fridge. She won't let me move it.

Saturday morning. Early June. The mountain is green, the creek behind the cabin is running high from snowmelt, and I'm on the porch at six-thirty with coffee because some things don't change.

Ivy comes through the door behind me. My henley, bare legs, hair twisted up in a clip. She sits in the chair next to mine, pulls her feet up, wraps her hands around the mug I left on the armrest.

"You already made coffee," she says.

"I make coffee every morning."

"Because I trained you."

"Because the general store opens at seven and you complained about the walk in February."

"It was freezing. My eyelashes froze."

"Your eyelashes didn't freeze."

"They were frosty, Reid. Frosty eyelashes."

My mouth pulls up. Six months of waking up to this woman talking nonsense at dawn. Six months of coffee on this porch, her feet tucked under her, that oversized henley showing one bare shoulder where the collar slips.

She's gained weight since October. Not much. Enough that her face is fuller, her curves are softer. She's eating. Sleeping. Working on something she loves. She looks healthy.

She looks like she belongs here.

"Patty texted me at five-thirty this morning," she says. "Her Instagram hit two thousand followers. She wants to celebrate with a bake sale. I told her we can do a sponsored post with Holly's bakery and cross-promote."

"You told Patty Cole about cross-promotion."

"She's surprisingly receptive when you use food metaphors. I told her it's like pairing muffins with coffee. Different products, shared audience."

"You're terrifying."

"Thank you."

She sips her coffee. Goes quiet. That's unusual. Ivy doesn't do quiet unless she's thinking hard about something or she's nervous.

"Reid."