Page 17 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
"What are you running from?" I asked bluntly as we pulled away from the outfitters.
Her fingers stilled on the screen, but her expression remained carefully neutral. "Just the tyranny of good Wi-Fi and indoor plumbing," she deflected with a flip of her hair.
I raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "You check that phone every five minutes like you're expecting bad news, even though there's no service."
"It's a habit," she shrugged. "Like how you probably check the sky before deciding what to wear."
I let it drop, recognizing a defensive wall when I saw one. Whatever she was hiding, she wasn't ready to share it yet.
As we approached the town's only intersection, I noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked near the gas station—a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows that stood out like a penguin at a chicken convention. The driver appeared to be taking photos of the street with a professional camera fitted with a long-range lens.
"Tourist," Scarlett suggested when she noticed my attention. "Probably documenting authentic small-town America for their Instagram."
But something about the car made my instincts buzz with warning. In my experience, people who could afford vehicles like that didn't "discover" places like Promise Ridge by accident.
As we passed, the driver lowered the camera just enough for me to glimpse dark sunglasses and the edge of what appeared to be an expensive suit.
I made a mental note of the license plate, filing away the detail with the same automatic response I'd developed in Afghanistan—potential threat, monitor situation, gather intelligence.
"What's wrong?" Scarlett asked, noticing my tension.
"Nothing," I lied, not wanting to alarm her without confirmation. "Just thinking about what to make for dinner with our new goods."
She seemed to accept this, returning to her contemplation of the passing trees. But my mind was working through scenarios, calculating risks and responses.
If she really was running from something—or someone—my peaceful mountain existence was about to become significantly more complicated.
And I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about the fact that my first instinct wasn't irritation, but fierce protectiveness.
Chapter Six
“Operation Banana Republic ”
Scarlett
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, assessing my collection of wooing strategies I'd been saving for desperate times. Two days in the mountain wilderness, and Operation: Deflower Me Now was failing spectacularly.
"Time for the nuclear option," I told my reflection, applying a fresh coat of red lipstick. I'd abandoned subtlety after our trip to town yielded zero romantic progress. If Bodhi Wilder wasn't going to respond to a sundress that barely covered the essentials, more drastic measures were clearly required.
I rummaged through my suitcase, locating the "emergency" items I'd packed for this exact scenario. Enticing a man was like any tactical operation—proper planning prevented poor performance. And I always came prepared.
The evening had settled into a comfortable rhythm of domesticity that was completely at odds with my scheme to win him over. Bodhi had grilled fish for dinner—actual fish he'd caught himself in the stream behind his cabin, which was both impressive and mildly terrifying. The man could apparently produce food from nature like some bearded wilderness magician.
Now he sat on the couch, reading something that looked suspiciously like poetry, his profile illuminated by the warm glow of an oil lamp. The electricity was conserving itself again, or whatever technical explanation he'd given for why we were living like it was 1862.
Perfect. Dim lighting was optimal for seduction. Everyone knew that.
I retreated to my room, changed into the shortest shorts I owned and a tank top thin enough to be illegal in several southern states, and put my plan into action.
Phase One: The Banana Demonstration.
I'd found the fruit at Mabel's general store—the only fresh produce in the entire establishment besides some elderly-looking apples. Now, I sauntered into the living room with casual grace, banana in hand, and settled into the comfy armchair opposite Bodhi.
He glanced up briefly, then returned to his book. Not exactly the double-take I was hoping for.
I made a soft noise to catch his attention as I began peeling the banana with choreographed moves, never taking my eyes off him.
"Hungry?" he asked absently, turning a page.
