Page 5 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

I nod. “Clean towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

I’m only a few steps out the bedroom door when I remember the shower’s quirks. Turning back, I open the door without thinking. “Watch out for the?—”

The sight before me halts my breath. Paige stands beside the bed, clothes halfway off, smooth skin and bare curves exposed. I snap my eyes away, but not before the image burns itself into my memory—the lush curves of her waist, the swell of her breasts against fabric.

“The water gets scalding hot if you turn it too far right,” I manage to say, facing the hallway.

“Thanks,” she calls after me, voice higher and tighter than before.

I pull the door shut, cursing myself. Some gentleman I’m turning out to be.

4

PAIGE

The next several days go better than that first terrible one, though Hawk and I are still a long way from comfortable with each other. Each morning, I wake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and spend a few seconds remembering where I am. The bed feels too big, too empty. Through the window, I watch Hawk cross the yard to his workshop, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. He moves with purpose, never glancing back at the cabin. But some mornings, he leaves fresh coffee in the pot for me, and once I found wild berries on the counter—his quiet way of showing he’s trying.

After he leaves, I enjoy a long shower, grateful for the surprisingly good water pressure and blissfully hot water. Then I get dressed and make myself breakfast—usually eggs cooked in a weathered cast iron pan that’s probably older than I am. The kitchen is organized in ways that make no sense to me, but I’m learning. Slowly.

My midday walks grow longer each day. The forest speaks its own language—branches creaking overhead, leaves whisperingin the breeze, birds calling back and forth. I memorize landmarks: a fallen tree trunk covered in bright green moss, a cluster of white wildflowers, a clear stream cutting through the property. Each day I venture a little further, marking my path so I won’t get lost.

As evening approaches, I find myself listening for his workshop door. When he comes inside, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and his hair mussed from a long day’s work, my breath catches. I may be uncertain about whether this marriage is going to work, but I have no doubts about how devastatingly attracted I am to this man.

We make attempts at conversation while we eat—he compliments my cooking, I ask about his work. As he talks, I catch glimpses of the man from his messages. But every exchange still feels tentative, like neither of us quite knows how to relax around the other. When we finish, he disappears into the shower while I clean up. By the time I’m done, he’s already settled on the couch with a book.

“You don’t have to sleep there,” I tell him every night. “I can take the couch.”

He always responds the same way: “I’m fine here,” with a small smile that tells me he’s trying to be a gentleman.

But we both know this arrangement can’t last. If we’re going to be married, we’ll be sharing not just a home but a bed, and the thought of it sends a flutter through my stomach.

One afternoon, I’m exploring a new section of the forest when footsteps crunch behind me. My heart jumps into my throat, Hawk’s warning about bears flashing through my mind. I spin around, ready to make myself look big and threatening, only to find myself face-to-face with the shaggiest dog I’ve ever seen.

He’s massive, with gray-brown fur that makes him look, ironically, more like a small bear than a dog. His tail wags hopefully as he watches me.

“Well, hello there.” I keep my voice soft and gentle. “Are you lost?”

The dog’s tail wags harder. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, until he’s close enough for me to see his collar. When I reach out, he pushes his head into my palm.

“Grizzly,” I read from his tag. “That’s fitting.” A phone number is engraved below the name. “You must have worried someone sick. Let’s get you home.”

Grizzly follows me willingly through the trees. When Hawk’s workshop comes into view, I hesitate. I’ve never approached it before—it’s his sanctuary, as clear as any boundary line could be. But the lost dog needs help.

My knock echoes in the quiet air. Hawk opens the door with sawdust in his hair and slight annoyance on his face. The expression freezes when he sees Grizzly.

“Found him in the woods,” I explain. “He has a collar with a phone number.”

Hawk studies the dog, who stares back with unblinking brown eyes. “Better call the owners.”

Inside the cabin, I punch the number into my phone while Hawk fills a bowl with water. Grizzly laps it up eagerly.

A woman answers on the second ring. Her voice breaks with relief when I describe finding Grizzly. “Oh, I’m so glad you called. We’ve been looking everywhere. The girls have been beside themselves.”

“We can bring him to you,” I offer, watching Hawk tense at the wordwe. “Just give me directions.”

Minutes later, we’re in Hawk’s truck, Grizzly sprawled across the back seat. The silence between us feels different with the dog there, less sharp-edged. When Grizzly pushes his nose between our seats, tongue lolling, I swear I see the corner of Hawk’s mouth twitch.

The drive takes us down the mountain a little ways, still deep in the forest. We pass the house where I’d stopped for directions that first day, and soon after pull up to a beautiful large cabin. Two young girls burst out the front door before Hawk can put the truck in park.

---