Page 4 of Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise

“I can sleep on the couch,” she offered after a while.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

“Didn’t ask you to. I told you I have a guest bedroom.”

She nodded, then looked at me. “You really didn’t know?”

“Nope.”

“All this time, someone else was pretending to be you?”

“Seems like it.”

She leaned back against the cushion and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the moment we met. “Well, I’m here now. And I’m not going back.”

I raised a brow. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“That’s it? Just…no?”

“That’s it.” She lifted her chin and stared at something slightly to the right of me. “I left for a reason. My mother—she’s the kind of woman who arranges your entire life before you’re old enough to drive. Debutante balls, charity luncheons, business school I didn’t want to attend. If it were up to her, I’d already be married to some perfectly polished bore with a Rolex and no backbone.”

“So you came here for a lumberjack with a temper?”

“I came here for a chance to breathe.” She sighed. “And yes, I wanted a husband. I wanted someone who didn’t care that I’mnot Ivy League or Stepford material. Someone who chops wood, builds things, maybe fixes his own truck.”

She paused, eyes returning to my face. She waited for a few seconds, like she expected me to interrupt. I didn’t.

“I wanted to get married, start my little business here, and finally figure out who the hell I am without my mother pulling the strings,” she said. “Do you know I’ve never been given the freedom to date who I want? That’s why I’m still a virgin.”

All the air seemed to have left my lungs as I took in that announcement. This woman had never been with a man? She looked to be in her early twenties, sure, but I was guessing twenty-three or twenty-four. It’d been more than a decade, but when I was that age, the women I dated were at least a little experienced.

But I didn’t comment on that. First, because I didn’t know what to say, but also because it would most likely make her feel self-conscious about it.

I leaned back, arms crossed. “You figured this town was the answer?”

“I figured a fresh start was. I figuredyouwere.”

There it was again. That quiet, unapologetic certainty. She said it like it wasn’t crazy. Like it wasn’t completely insane that a woman would fly halfway across the country and walk into a stranger’s life with her heart gift-wrapped and ready to go.

“I’m not going to marry you, Bridget.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

She nodded. “And I said I know.”

“You say that, but?—”

“I’m not asking for a fairytale, Reilly. I’m asking for a shot. We can date, and if you decide you don’t want this, we’ll end it. No fight from me.”

I just stared at her. She said it like it was a business deal. Like we were swapping rings to start a car wash or buy a duplex. Except she didn’t look like a woman making a cold decision. She looked like a woman trying not to get hurt by one.

“You’re serious,” I said.

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