Page 7 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

The thought hits me as I watch Paige move through the space, her fingers trailing over my workbench with reverence. Wood shavings curl around her feet, catching golden afternoon light. The air smells of fresh-cut wood and sawdust, familiar scents that somehow hit different with her here.

“These are incredible.” She stops at my wall of completed pieces, studying each one. Her eyes catch on a kestrel I carved last spring, wings spread wide in flight. “The detail in the feathers…” She leans closer, squinting at the intricate lines. “How do you even do that?”

My throat tightens. Having her here feels raw, like I’m stripped naked before her. But watching her genuine fascination with my work also warms my chest.

“Different tools for different details.” I pick up my favorite gouge, the handle burnished from years of use. “This one’s good for feathers. Creates clean lines without taking off too much material at once.”

She nods, clearly trying to picture it. “And you just know which tool to use when?”

“After enough practice, yeah. The wood tells you what it needs, if you listen.” The words feel clumsy in my mouth. I’m not used to explaining this stuff out loud.

But Paige smiles. “What do you mean, the wood tells you?”

I grab a piece of cherry wood from my scrap pile, running my thumb over its grain. “See these lines? They show you where the wood wants to split, where it’ll fight you if you try to cut against it.” I trace the pattern with my finger. “Work with the grain instead of fighting it, and the wood opens up for you.”

She steps closer, peering at the wood in my hands. “Can I feel?”

I hold out the piece. Her fingers lightly brush against mine as she takes it, making my pulse surge. She mimics my earlier movement, running her thumb along the grain.

“Huh.” She runs her thumb back and forth. “Yeah, I get what you mean about the grain.”

An unfamiliar pleasure swells in my chest, followed immediately by an urge to show her more. I lead her to my bandsaw, one of the largest pieces of equipment in the shop. “This is where most pieces start. I use this to cut down larger sections of wood into workable sizes.”

“Will you show me how it works?”

The request catches me off guard. I grab a spare piece of pine—softer, more forgiving than cherry.

“Stand here.” I position her in front of the saw, then realize what I’ve done. To guide her properly, I’ll need to…

My heart pounds as I step behind her, close enough that my chest nearly touches her back. “Keep your fingers well away from the blade,” I say, my voice rough with warning. I wrap my hands around hers, showing her how to grip the wood safely. Her skin is soft under my palms.

“Like this?” She adjusts her grip, pressing back slightly against me in the process.

Jesus. I force myself to focus on the task, not on how perfectly she fits against me. “Yeah, that’s good. Now just guide it forward slowly.” Together, we ease the wood into the blade. The saw whines as it bites through the pine, sending sweet-smelling sawdust into the air.

When we finish the cut, Paige turns her head to look up at me, her eyes bright. “That felt amazing.”

She’s so close that everything around us blurs away. Her lips part slightly, and for one tempting moment, I imagine closing the distance between us. Threading my fingers through her hair. Tasting her lips.

“Thank you.” Her voice comes out a little breathy. “For letting me try this. For sharing all this with me.”

The air between us feels hot, electric. We’re standing too close, way too close, but I can’t make myself step back. Especially when the corner of Paige’s mouth lifts like she’s just decided something about me.

Paige breaks the moment first, clearing her throat. “I should probably start thinking about dinner.” Pink gently stains her cheeks as she eases away from me. “Any requests?”

It takes my brain several seconds to process the question. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

She smiles—soft, a little shy—before retreating and slipping out the door. The workshop immediately feels colder without her in it. I lean against my workbench, trying to steady my racing pulse.

The owl carving sits unfinished beside me, its ruined wing a reminder of my panic that first day she arrived. But now, looking at the damage, I see possibility instead of failure. Maybe I can work with the imperfection, let it become part of the piece’s character. Like how Paige is slowly working her way into my life, changing things I thought were set in stone.

I pick up my chisel, and for the first time in days, my hands feel steady.

That evening, when I push open the door of my cabin, the scent of home cooking pulls me in like a hug. For days now, I’ve been walking into a new kind of home—one filled with good smells and vibrancy—but tonight I feel it settle into my bones. These moments of opening my door, finding my space transformed—they’ve become the part of my day I look forward to without even realizing it.

Paige stands at the stove, hair pulled back from her face, steam rising around her as she works. I’ve been acutely aware of her beauty from day one, but this is different. Watching her turn my home into something warmer, seeing how she’s becoming part of it with each passing day—it reaches past lustful attraction into territory I’ve never experienced before.

“There you are.” She glances over her shoulder. “It’s ready.”

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