Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

It’s oddly endearing. Rugged. Real. Like a lumberjack who reads poetry and doesn’t know he’s hot.

He exhales hard. “I just didn’t expect you to be so… ready to go through with it.”

“Ready to go through what?”

His brow knits together. “The marriage.”

My jaw falls slack. “I’m sorry,what?”

It’s hard to even comprehend what to think when he says:

“I get that you’re a mail-order bride. I just didn’t realize you’d show up in”—he gestures at my outfit—“that, already ready to walk down the aisle with me.”

TWO

KNOX

My bride wobbles and nearly collapses at my feet.

Despite the distance I’d put between us, I reach for her to keep her upright. When she sways a little, I instinctively wrap an arm around her waist.

I try to ignore how nice her shapely hip feels against my palm. Or the way it sends my pulse—and my self-control—into a full-scale crisis.

Boone had told me she’d be beautiful. He hadn’t told me she’d be knock-me-out-of-my-senses gorgeous. I take the opportunity to look her over again.

With shimmery eyes that are a mix of sage and gold, full pink lips, and curves for days, she’s exactly the kind of woman who will turn heads. Even when she isn’t wearing a wedding dress. A dress that seems to hug all of her curves in exactly the right places.

Though it’s tempting to explore those curves, I keep my hand firmly planted in place. I don’t actually plan on marrying this woman. It would be wrong to start acting like it now.

Then there’s her hair. I’ve never considered myself a hair man. But the long, rich brown hair is swept up in a tight bun. My fingers itch to pull it loose and watch it cascade down over shoulders, like a waterfall flowing over a cliff’s edge.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat. “Are you okay, Erica?”

She blinks. “Erica?”

“That is your name, right?”

“I’m not Erica,” she says, her voice pinched. “I’m Quincy.”

“Oh. Quincy.” I frown. “I must have gotten the names mixed up.”

Not that you can blame me. It’s not every day a man’s friend signs him up for a mail-order bride like it’s a subscription box for a jam of the month club. And that said bride actually shows up. Wearing a damn wedding dress.

The woman—whoever she is—looks like she might faint again.

“Let’s get you out of here.” I’m not keeping her. But I can’t leave her here until the next flights depart in the morning. I tighten my grip on her and retrieve her roller bag with my other. “Do you have any more baggage?”

She shakes her head. “Only a lot of mistakes and regret.”

I raise a brow. That’s… unexpected. And—damn it all—intriguing.

I can’t explain why, but the second this woman ran into, something inside of me switched. My body is painfully aware of her every movement and sigh.

It’s probably just been too long since I had a woman. My buddy Boone had been right about that.

Navigating her through the exit, the cool Alaskan air hits us. Crisp and clean, I fill my lungs with the familiar scent of pine and freshness. There’s a hint of something else, something sweet.

No doubt it’s some of my bride’s perfume. Hell.

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