Page 4 of The Minx and the Mountain Man

I glance at the cabin, at the familiar lines of the roof, the porch I spent a whole summer working on, and the hand-carved beams inside that I ran my fingers over just this morning.

“Yeah.”

Sadie’s eyes soften. “It’s beautiful.”

Something twists in my chest, but I shove it down.

“Come on,” I mutter, stomping up the steps. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”

She trails after me, her boots crunching in the snow.

Inside, the warmth wraps around us instantly, the scent of woodsmoke and cedar filling the space. I set her suitcase down near the stairs.

Sadie looks around, eyes bright. “Cozy.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I shrug off my coat and hang it by the door, watching as she steps deeper into the cabin, taking in every detail. The stone fireplace, the worn leather couch, the kitchen with its solid wood counters and sturdy cabinets.

She spins to face me, hands on her hips. “So, where do I sleep?”

I nod toward the stairs. “Bedroom’s up there. It’s yours.”

She blinks and for the first time I see a crack in her cheery demeanor. “Wait… you’re not sleeping up there?”

“No.”

She frowns. “But—”

“Sadie.” My voice is firm. “This is not that kind of arrangement.”

Her lips part, and something flickers across her face—something I can’t quite read. But then, just as fast, she plasters on a smile.

“Well, that’s very gentlemanly of you, Mr. Calloway.” She walks past me toward the stairs, suitcase in tow. Then she pauses on the first step and tosses me a look over her shoulder. “I like to sleep naked. It’s probably best we’re not sharing a bed anyway.”

And then she winks.

Actually fucking winks like she’s enjoying this.

I have a sinking feeling in my gut because I made a promise to take a wife. To keep things simple. But there is nothing simple about Sadie Winslow.

Chapter Three

Sadie

This cabin smells like cedar and smoke and something undeniably Reid. It smells good in that rugged, outdoorsy way that makes my stomach do an embarrassing little flip. Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

I drag my suitcase up the stairs, my boots thudding against the wood, and when I reach the loft, I let out a little gasp. It’s beautiful.

Warm golden light from the bedside lamp spills across the space, highlighting the thick wooden beams that run along the ceiling. The bed, massive and covered in a thick quilt, looks like something straight out of a fairytale. A woven rug softens the floorboards, and a bookshelf built right into the wall is stuffed with worn paperbacks.

It’s rustic, homey, and unexpectedly charming.

I drop my suitcase and step farther inside, trailing my fingers along the bedpost and then across the quilt. It’s handmade, the stitches small and neat, probably sewn by someone who actually knows how to sew instead of fumbling her way through like I did when I tried to fix my own sweater last year.

I bite my lip. I shouldn’t like it here.

Not when I just got off a bus in the middle of nowhere to marry a stranger who looked like he’d rather wrestle a bear than spend five minutes in my presence.

But something about this place feels right. And that’s dangerous.

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