Page 25 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

Except now she’s here, and the questions I shoved away are back, tapping on my shoulder, demanding to be answered.

Once the rain lets up, we spend the rest of the day doing little things—tidying up, moving the firewood into the covered stack, checking the trail camera batteries. At one point, she snaps a picture of me with her phone, says she wants to “capture the lumberjack in his natural habitat.”

“Are you going to send it to your cat?” I tease

“Nope.” She tucks the phone away. “That’s just for me.”

Her voice is light, but the way she looks at me—it sticks. It settles under my skin like a splinter.

We have a light supper—leftover chili and cornbread—and she insists on washing the dishes while I dry. It’s ridiculous how right it feels. How easy.

And that’s exactly why I know it can’t last.

The closer I get to her, the more I want something I don’t deserve. Something I can’t keep.

I step outside for some air and pull my phone from my pocket. A notification pings across the screen.

It’s a message from Boone:

“Heads up for next time you’re in town: Something might be coming in for you. But you don’t need to worry about it.”

I frown.

What the hell does that mean?

There’s a meaning behind those words I don’t like, but it takes me a while to remember.

I wonder if it has anything to do with that damn mail-order bride service. The one he signed me up for. I told him to cancel that damn thing.

Whatever. It’s on him to deal with now. I have more important things, or rather, someone more important to focus on.

I look back at the cabin, where Quincy is humming to herself in the kitchen. Wearing my flannel. Standing in my space like she belongs there.

Because she does. I just haven’t quite figured out how to keep her here with me forever.

NINE

QUINCY

The smell of bacon and fresh coffee fills the cabin, cozy and rich, curling around my senses like a warm hug.

Knox’s flannel shirt hangs off one shoulder, hitting me mid-thigh. It’s soft and smells like him—cedar, smoke, and something uniquely masculine that makes me want to bury my face in the collar and never come out.

At first, he loaned me the flannel shirts because I barely had anything packed in my tiny carryon bag. Just a sweatsuit, a couple changes of underwear, and some supplies I’d brought to get ready on the wedding day.

He took me into town at first to pick up a few more pieces of clothing. But he hasn’t offered to take me clothes shopping again since we got together. I think we’ve both gotten used to my wearing his shirts around.

I think we’ve both started to like it.

I flip another pancake and hum a pop-tune under my breath. There’s a lightness in my chest today. A dizzy, delicious weightlessness I’ve never felt before.

“Morning,” Knox’s low, gravelly voice comes from the doorway with sleep.

It’s a rare morning that I get out of bed before him. But being an early bird has given me the very best reward.

He’s shirtless—Lord help me—and wearing just a pair of dark pajama pants that hang low on his hips. His hair is a little wild, his prosthetic eye catching the sunlight. My stomach flips at the sight of him. Or maybe it’s the two cups of coffee I already drank.

It’s probably the sight of him.

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