Page 8 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
She ran a finger along my bookshelf, checking for dust. Thanks to Flint's cleaning frenzy, she found none. "Fascinating collection. Military history, survival guides, and..." She pulled out a dog-eared paperback. "Jane Austen?"
I snatched the book from her hand. "Belonged to my grandmother."
That was a lie. I'd bought it at a used bookstore in Promise Ridge. I'd sooner admit to handling live explosives blindfolded than confess I enjoyed nineteenth-century literature.
"Tour?" I said gruffly, desperate to move things along.
She followed me through the cabin, her perfume making it hard to focus, like trying to navigate with a faulty compass. I kept my eyes forward, avoiding the view that was proving more distracting than it should.
"Kitchen." I gestured to the open area with my hand-built cabinets—the one thing I'd actually taken time to craft properly. "Stove runs on propane. Fridge on solar."
"Charming," she said, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, smudging her makeup slightly. "Is everything in here powered by prayer and wishful thinking?"
"Solar panels." I tapped the energy monitor on the wall. "Enough power for necessities. Not enough for hair dryers and air conditioning."
"It must be ninety degrees in here," she complained, fanning herself with a magazine she'd pulled from her purse.
"Eighty-four," I corrected, glancing at the thermometer mounted by the back door. "Windows open at night, closed during the day. Mountain way of beating the heat."
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might strain something.
"Bathroom's here," I continued, pushing open the door to the small space that had taken me three months to get right. The shower drain had been a particular nightmare. "Scared off most of the spiders this morning."
Her head snapped toward me. "Most?"
"Can't get 'em all." I couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of my mouth. "The bigger ones usually stay in the rafters, though. Unless they're hungry."
She went pale beneath her makeup. Good. Maybe fear of arachnids would send her packing faster than my charming personality.
"Hot water?" she asked weakly, peering into the shower like she expected to find a tarantula tea party.
"When the solar's charged, you'll have plenty of hot water," I said, gesturing to the copper pipes visible through the small window. "One advantage of all this summer sunshine."
"Small blessings," she said with relief.
"And here," I said, moving to the final door, "is where you'll sleep."
I pushed open the door to the spare room that, until yesterday's emergency eviction, had housed a family of raccoons. Flint had helped me clear out the nest and scrub the place down, but there was no masking the lingering scent of wild animals or the scratch marks on the windowsill.
Scarlett's nose wrinkled instantly. "What's that smell?"
"Previous tenants," I said flatly. "They checked out yesterday."
"People?"
"Technically mammals."
She stepped inside cautiously, taking in the simple bed with its army-surplus blanket, the three-legged dresser I'd propped up with a chunk of firewood, and the small window that looked out into darkness. "There's no closet."
"Hook on the back of the door."
"One hook?"
"How many do you need? It's one night."
She looked at her massive suitcase, then back at me with an expression that suggested I'd just told her we'd be dining on grubs and twigs.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since the jerky I'd had for lunch while fighting with that damn deck post—a project now on indefinite hold thanks to my unexpected visitor.
