Page 3 of Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise

“I didn’t come here to trap anyone,” I added. “But I also didn’t come here to be tossed aside like I’m crazy for showing up.”

He exhaled, slow and heavy. “Bobbi told me you were her friend’s niece. She didn’t say anything about a wedding.”

“Because she lied to you,” I said. “And to me.”

He didn’t answer. The waitress dropped off our drinks, and I stirred sugar into mine, pretending my hand wasn’t shaking.

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” I said after a long pause. “I just want to know what I’m supposed to do now. Because I don’t have a return ticket. And I don’t have a backup plan.”

Another silence stretched between us. He looked out the window like the mountains might have answers I didn’t.

Finally, he muttered, “I’m not taking you back to the inn.”

That caught me off guard. “What?”

“I’ve got a guest room. You can stay there.”

“Why?”

He looked at me then. Really looked at me.

“Because I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Oh. Well. You should be proud of that.”

That earned me the barest hint of a smirk, but it vanished as fast as it came.

“I don’t know what Bobbi was thinking,” he said, pushing his plate away. “But I didn’t sign up for a wife. And I don’t need someone in my house trying to play one.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “You don’t have to worry about me playing anything.”

His eyes followed me as I scooted out of the booth, then he tossed a few bills on the table and stood up. We didn’t say a word on the walk back to the truck. But when I climbed into the cab and caught him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, I didn’t feel quite as invisible as I had before.

2

REILLY

She sat on my couch like she belonged there. Bare knees together, skirt smoothed down, back straight like she was still trying to impress someone. Or maybe like she was bracing for impact.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t have the warmest welcome-home energy. Never had.

She’d taken off her shoes at the door without me asking. Now her toes curled against the rug while her eyes roamed the living room—stone fireplace, heavy log furniture, and not a throw pillow in sight.

I fucking hated throw pillows.

“I thought there’d be more plaid,” she finally said.

“Plaid’s overrated,” I muttered.

She smiled at that. I didn’t. I couldn’t. My brain was busy running back everything I’d seen when she climbed into my truck. Every curve. Every inch of skin that wasn’t hidden by that long-sleeved blouse and super tight, knee-length skirt.

I was trying to be decent. Really trying. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how she looked in that damn pencil skirt. And Isure as hell couldn’t stop thinking about how she thought I was supposed to marry her.

I cleared my throat and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. “You want anything else? I don’t have much in the way of dessert. I have peanut butter and milk. Not sure if that helps.”

“I’m good,” she said, catching the bottle I tossed her.

We sat in silence, the air between us loaded with things I didn’t know how to say. I’d let her into my home, but I still hadn’t figured out what the hell to do with her.

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