Page 10 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
The temperature had finally started to drop as the evening wore on. With dessert finished and dishes cleared, there wasn't much left to delay the inevitable.
Later, after showing her how the shower's temperamental valve worked ("Full left for hot, don't touch the middle setting unless you enjoy ice baths") and pointing out the battery-powered fan I kept for the hottest nights, I retreated to my bedroom, the only space still free from the invasion.
I checked my phone, surprised to see no messages from Flint. The bastard had promised to return today to "witness the magic" of Scarlett's arrival. Typical. Set off the landmine, then disappear before the explosion. When I got my hands on him tomorrow...
I lay on my bed, stripped down to boxer shorts against the lingering heat, uncomfortably aware of my body's reaction to having an attractive woman under my roof. Through the open window came the drone of cicadas and the distant howl of a coyote. Summer nights in the mountains—normally my favorite time. Now ruined by the sounds of an intruder: water pipes groaning, floorboards creaking, and the occasional soft sigh that made my imagination run places it had no business going.
Just as I was drifting into uneasy sleep, her voice cut through the thin walls, sharp and horrified:
"No service? At all? Like, NONE? What the hell, is this even America?"
I jammed my pillow over my head, a technique I'd perfected in barracks with twenty other Rangers. Didn't work any better now than it had then.
Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to send this woman back to whatever she was running from. Tomorrow, I'd reclaim my territory. Tomorrow, I'd get back to work on that deck post andforget about the way her body moved when she laughed or how gracefully she carried herself despite being completely out of her element. And tomorrow, I'd have a very pointed conversation with Flint about his absence today.
Colonel crowed once from his roost, the feathered equivalent of "I told you so."
"Shut up," I muttered into the darkness.
But the rooster was right. I was screwed.
And not in the way that kept me awake, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware she was sleeping just one thin wall away.
Chapter Four
“Operation Deflower Me Now”
Scarlett
Something was staring at me.
I blinked awake, my body registering several complaints at once: the too-firm mattress beneath me, the scratchy army-surplus blanket against my skin, and the lingering scent of what I could only assume was Eau de Raccoon Family. After a restless night of tossing and turning—partly due to the unfamiliar bed and partly due to the maddening knowledge that Bodhi slept just one thin wall away—I felt about as refreshed as week-old lettuce.
And there, framed perfectly in the small window, was Colonel—Bodhi's demon chicken—watching me with beady eyes that judged my life choices more effectively than my mother ever could.
"Seriously?" I muttered, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair. "Poultry paparazzi. That's a new one."
Colonel tilted his head, his feathers puffing slightly as if offended by my existence. The morning light backlit him like some feathered harbinger of doom.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I told him, only to have him peck once at the window in what felt distinctly like a threat.
I checked my phone out of habit—still no service, still no escape route digitally available. At least the basic functions like my Notes app still worked offline. Small mercies. My reflection in the screen made me wince. Without my usual array of products, my hair had decided to channel "electrocution victim" rather than "tousled bedhead goddess."
The cabin was quiet except for the occasional creak of the ancient structure settling. No sign of my reluctant host. I slipped out of bed, pulled on the silk robe I'd packed (because even when fleeing an arranged marriage, a girl has standards), and padded to the window. The morning air seeped through the thin glass, carrying the crisp scent of pine and something earthy that never existed in Atlanta's perfumed suburbs.
That's when I saw him.
Bodhi stood in the clearing beside a massive pile of logs, swinging an axe with the casual precision of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. His shirt—apparently an optional garment in the wilderness—was draped over a nearby stump, leaving nothing but acres of tanned skin and muscle on full display.
Sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick.
I pressed my hand against the cool glass, suddenly very aware of my heartbeat.
Bodhi's body moved with fluid grace, the muscles in his back rippling as he brought the axe down in a perfect arc, splitting a log clean in two. Sweat glistened on his shoulders,highlighting every defined plane of his torso. His arms—dear lord, those arms—flexed with each movement, veins visible beneath tanned skin that had clearly never seen the inside of a tanning bed.
"Good lord," I whispered, "it's like someone took a Greek statue and just... added more muscles."
I'd dated prep school boys with expensive gym memberships and personal trainers who hadn't achieved half of what Bodhi's body displayed.
