Page 6 of Kissing the Wrong Mountain Man

"Big time. The place hadn't been updated since the '90s." I pause. "The 1890s."

She laughs like I hoped she would, and it's light and melodic and hits a spot deep in my chest. A spot buried so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed.

I try to play it off and act naturally for the rest of the evening as we discuss our mutual love of hiking and all things nature. She quizzes me on what veggies I'm planting that could withstand the approaching California mountain winter. (For the record, spinach, carrots, and brussel sprouts.) She asks about my restoration work, and I probably bore her with talk of replacing roof shingles and building a deck. Then she insists I have to binge watchDawson's Creekand nearly falls off her stool when I tell her I don't own a TV.

Or a computer.

Or even a tablet.

Time flies, and I'm sure there's still an engagement party going on around us, but I'm enjoying the bubble we've created too much to care about anything or anyone that isn't her.

"Oh, shoot." Schapelle peers over my shoulder. "Sabra and Reece. I haven't even said hello to them yet."

"Neither have I."

"I should probably go do that," she says, getting up slowly. There's a hesitancy to her words and the way she's moving that makes me think she's leaving more out of obligation than because she wants to.

Or maybe I've had one too many whiskeys and am imagining things. Because what could a charming, accomplished, smart, beautiful woman like Schapelle possibly see in a broken shell of a man like me?

I can't think of the last time I enjoyed being around someone this much, and I don't want her to go. So I take a deep breath, look square into those sky-blue eyes, and say the only thing I can think of to get her to stay.

"Schapelle…will you marry me?"

3

Schapelle

Sometimes, looking at my twin sister Tenley is like looking into a mirror, because apart from the blonde streaks she got last summer, we're identical.

Her face fills the entire screen of my phone as I adopt what's become my favorite couch position since falling pregnant—sprawled out with both legs swung over the back. What it lacks in grace, it more than makes up for in comfort. I'm keeping the phone close to my face to save Tenley from witnessing my beached whale phase.

But other times, I'm reminded how completely different we can be. Times like right now.

We're FaceTiming since she's currently based in Florida, running a chain of high-end resorts. I've just finished catching her up about what happened at Sabra and Reece's engagement party yesterday. Her eyes have been bug-eyed for most of the conversation, and they almost popped out of her head when I told her about the fifty mil clause in his grandfather's will and Brock's subsequent proposal.

"He saidwhat?!"

"He asked me to marry him," I repeat calmly.

"And what did you say?"

"I said I'll think about it."

"What is there to think about? You tell the dude, 'Sorry for accidentally kissing you, but we're complete strangers, so I cannot enter into a legally binding contract with you'."

"Hmm. I guess that's one way of looking at it."

Her jaw drops. "What other way is there?"

"Well, I've been doing some research…" Code for, I've been glued to my laptop all day, digging up everything I can on the hunky mountain man I smooched yesterday. Which, to be honest, wasn't a lot. He has no social media—surprise, surprise—and most of what I found centered around his brother, Culver Palladino, a retired pro hockey player. "We're kinda connected."

Tenley's blue eyes narrow. "Connected how?"

"Brock's younger brother Culver is married to one of our sister's best friends Hannah."

"Which one of our sisters? Allie or Beth?"

"Beth."

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