Page 7 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

My dick twitches, and I turn suddenly on my heel before she can catch a glimpse of the tent I’m pitching in my jeans.

I must be an idiot. Or, I’m a glutton for punishment. That can be the only explanation for why I’ve opened my home up to this stranger.

A stranger who tempts me more than anyone else ever has before.

THREE

QUINCY

Twenty-four hours ago, I was supposed to be walking down the aisle. Ready to begin the rest of my life with Axel—who, I’ve now started to call Axel the Asshole in my head.

Instead, after waking to the sound of logs being split in a clearing behind the cabin, I’m getting a tour of the property by the mountain man himself.

A mountain man with pair of shoulders and chin that look like they were carved out of rock quarried from the mountain.

But… here I am. In Alaska. On a mountain. Sleeping in a mountain man’s bed. But only because he insisted that I take it while he sleeps on the couch.

And Knox is…cool about all of it.

More cool than he should be, honestly. I mean, I could be a serial killer or a loud sleeper for all he knows.

If my ex had been in his shoes, he probably would have landed the plane in the middle of a forest and told me to find my own way back home. Fact: One time, I forgot to thaw chicken fordinner and we had to eat sandwiches instead of the Cordon Bleu I’d promised.

He’d pouted and made passive aggressive digs about it for weeks.

But Knox? He just calmly offered me a place to stay. Like I didn’t derail his whole life by showing up in a damn wedding dress and carrying a bunch of emotional baggage.

Like, last night, when I cried myself to bed, he didn’t tell me to shut up. He just brought me a cup of chamomile tea and some tissues.

He doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Doesn’t push. He just… gives me space.

He’s really almost too good to be true.

There’s just one teeny, tiny minor complaint I have about the guy. He’s barely said two words to me since he told me I could stay.

Which, as it turns out, is the fastest way to make me want to tell him everything.

“So,” I cast a sidelong glance at him as he leads me along a narrow path behind the cabin, “you really built this place yourself?”

“Yeah.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but his lips remain sealed. Of course, they do.

“And you live here year-round?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I pause again, but that’s it. No elaboration. No detail. No mention of it being cold as shit in the winter.

I arch an eyebrow. “Are you always this talkative?”

He smirks, and something about the way his lips curve makes my tummy flip. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Only when provoked.”

He chuckles at that, which eases some of the tension between us, which gives me the courage to try again. “So… do you run wilderness tours and host glamping guests year-round?”

“Mostly in the summer. I fly cargo during the winter.”

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