Page 5 of The Minx and the Mountain Man

I didn’t sign up for this whole mail-order-bride situation expecting to fit. I just wanted a new start. A chance to build a life somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

I wasn’t expecting a cabin that smells like home or a husband-to-be who looks like a lumberjack.

I close my eyes and exhale. This is fine. I can handle this. I’ve handled worse.

Shoving aside the creeping doubts, I unzip my suitcase and start unpacking. The dresser is solid, the drawers sliding open with a soft whoosh. As I tuck my sweaters inside, I let my mind wander.

Reid Calloway. My husband-to-be. The man who looked at me like I was a particularly loud bird that had flown into his truck by mistake.

To be fair, he did agree to this arrangement. No one forced him to take a mail-order bride. But judging by the way he grunts more than he speaks and acts like smiling might physically hurt him, I’m guessing he didn’t expect someone like me to show up.

Which, fine. That’s his problem.

I fluff my skirt and smooth my blouse before heading downstairs, ready to face him.

Reid is standing by the fireplace, feeding another log to the flames. The firelight casts long shadows across the cabin, making everything feel warmer and softer. He doesn’t look at me as I step onto the last stair.

I cross my arms. “So, what now, husband?”

That gets his attention. His shoulders tense, and he finally turns. “We’re not married yet.”

“Technicality.” I wave a hand. “I’m here, you’re here, the arrangement is in place. So what’s next?”

His jaw tightens. “We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow.”

“Okay. I brought a dress to wear, and I thought maybe you could wear a suit.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Look, Sadie—”

“Look, Sadie,” I mimic, stepping closer, chin tilted. “You don’t have to say it. I know I’m not what you expected.”

He frowns. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. You’ve been scowling at me like I insulted your mother’s cooking since I stepped off that bus.”

His eyes darken. “My mother didn’t cook.”

Oh. That’s unexpected. And also the tiniest bit heartbreaking.

I shift my weight. “Okay, well, I still get the feeling you weren’t exactly counting down the days for your wife to arrive.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just crosses his arms over his broad chest and gives me a long, unreadable look.

I hold his gaze, waiting. Waiting for him to say something. But he doesn’t. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and my stomach twists.

I don’t need him to want me here. I don’t need approval from a surly mountain man who communicates in glares and grunts. But suddenly, I want to crack him open just a little.

I want to see what’s under all that gruffness. I want to make him want this—want me not just as some obligation.

I exhale and roll my shoulders back, pasting on a smile. “Well, I, for one, am starving. What’s for lunch?”

He blinks. “You want me to cook?”

I arch a brow. “You live alone up here, don’t you? Surely you know how to make something other than coffee and disappointment.”

His lips twitch. Barely. But I see it. Progress.

Without another word, he turns and stalks toward the kitchen. I follow, watching as he yanks open the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs, and slams them on the counter.

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