Page 12 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

“Really good.” Her smile is bright and genuine. “Courtney and Jordana are great. It was fun getting to know them better.” She kicks off her shoes by the door. “Jordana’s due in six weeks. I’d love to get her a baby gift next time we go into town.”

I nod, watching Paige move through the cabin. As she talks about Jordana’s pregnancy, my mind surprises me, drifting to thoughts of Paige carryingourchild. Just a handful of days ago, the idea of bringing a child into my isolated world sent me running for my workshop. Now, amazingly, it’s not so hard toimagine Paige with her hands curved around a swollen belly, our family growing within these walls.

But these walls…I look around the cabin, reminded again of how cold and utilitarian it feels. Not the kind of home someone like Paige deserves.

“How can we make this place better for you?” I ask earnestly.

She turns to me, surprise softening into a warm expression. “What do you mean?”

“The cabin. What would make it feel more like home?”

She glances around, looking thoughtful. “Nothing major. Just some softer touches maybe. A few pictures on the walls, some color here and there. Little things to make it cozier.”

“We could drive down to Fairhope later this week,” I suggest. “Do some shopping. Stop by City Hall while we’re there.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s an amused smile playing at her lips as she plants her hands on her hips. “Hawk. We are not getting married like it’s just another errand to check off your list.” She shakes her head. “I want it to be special. Even if that means I have to do the shopping trip alone because you don’t want to make two separate trips into town.”

My neck flushes with heat. Trust me to try to make our wedding practical. “You’re right. The wedding should be its own day.”

I step closer, suddenly nervous about what I’m about to show her. Of all the pieces I’ve carved, this one means the most. “I want you to see what I was working on today.” I pull the ring from my pocket, holding it out in my palm. “I know you probably want something with a diamond. I’ll get you that too. But I wanted to make you this, even if you don’t wear it.”

Her eyes grow wide as she lifts the ring. “Hawk, it’s beautiful.” She turns it in the light, examining every detail. “I don’t need diamonds. This is perfect.”

She slides it onto her finger, and relief floods through me when it fits just right. As she admires her new ring, my eyes catch on the silver ring she wears on her other hand. I’ve wondered about it since that first day.

“What’s the story behind your other ring?” I ask.

Her expression shifts, grows more somber. “When I was a teenager, my mom was clearing out stuff to donate. I saw this ring in the pile.” She twists it on her finger. “I knew she’d never pass down jewelry to me—she wasn’t that kind of mother. So I took it from the donate pile. She never even noticed I was wearing it.” She lets out a quiet sigh. “I should probably stop. It’s kind of pathetic, holding onto something like that.”

“It’s not pathetic.”

“Well, anyway. That’s the story.”

The silence stretches between us for a moment before I speak. “I never knew my parents at all. When I was a newborn, someone left me in a cardboard box outside a convenience store. Not even a hospital or fire station—just dumped me there and walked away.” The words taste ashen in my mouth. “I grew up in foster care. Nobody ever wanted to keep me.”

Paige’s eyes go soft with empathy. “How did you end up here?”

“I bounced around after I aged out. Manual labor mostly. But I never fit anywhere. Couldn’t figure out how to be around people like a normal person.” I rake a hand through my hair. “The only time I felt right was when I was completely alone. So I saved up,found the most remote place I could afford, and moved up here.” I meet her eyes. “The solitude was exactly what I needed. Until the loneliness started eating at me…”

She steps closer, cups my face in her soft hands. When she kisses me, it’s slow and tender, filled with understanding. Something cracks open in my chest, letting in light.

Two days later, Paige tells me she’s going to drive down to Fairhope to do some shopping for the cabin. The thought of navigating crowds and small talk makes my skin crawl, so I decide to stay behind. As she climbs into her off-roader, I remind her to drive carefully.

Her lips curve into a playful smile. “Damn it, I was planning on taking those hairpin turns at full speed.”

The hours drag while she’s gone. I try to lose myself in work, but the silence feels different now. Emptier. When her vehicle finally returns, I’m outside before she can cut the engine, eager to help unload her purchases. The items she’s chosen—soft throws, framed art, various decorative things I don’t have names for—aren’t anything I would have picked. But seeing how they make her eyes light up, I find I don’t mind them at all.

The next few days pass in a pleasant blur. Paige transforms our living space bit by bit, adding touches of warmth and color. We share more conversations, each one more comfortable than the last. At night, we sleep tangled together, trading heated kisses and exploring touches, saving the rest for after we’re married.

Finally, our wedding day arrives. I put on my cleanest clothes—a fresh button-down shirt and dark pants. When Paige emerges in her simple white dress and that sweet little veil she wore the day we met, my heart damn near stops. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I open the truck door for her, then pause. “Hold on.” I dash to gather a handful of wildflowers. When I hold them out to her, she laughs happily and kisses my cheek.

“Thank you, Hawk. You’re so sweet.”

At City Hall, Courtney is waiting with her camera. Having my photo taken makes my skin itch, but I know we’ll want the memories, and Courtney keeps the photos brief, understanding my discomfort.

The wedding ceremony is also short and simple, and for a moment I worry that Paige wishes she had a more traditional wedding. But when she saysI Do, I see the deep joy in her eyes and know she doesn’t need all that other stuff.

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