Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
Still, when she spoke, it was with this strange kind of confidence, likeof coursethis was going to work out. Like meeting a stranger in the middle of nowhere and marrying him on sight was perfectly normal, healthy behavior. I tried to ask questions—where he lived, what he was like—but Marcy brushed most of them off.
“He’s quiet, but steady. A real mountain man. And you—you’ve got a warm energy, Daisy. You’re exactly what he needs.”
“What if he’s not whatIneed?” I muttered.
She just smiled wider. “Sweetheart, you’ve picked your own men before, right? How’d that go?”
Bitch! How rude! But… she’s right.
I guess that’s how she got me. Because she was right. My taste in men has always been... cataclysmic. The last one left me with six hundred dollars of unpaid rent and a busted heart. The one before him ghosted me on my birthday. And the one beforehimtold me I “smelled too hopeful.”
So no. I don’t trust myself with love. Maybe I’ve got something in me that draws the wrong people? Maybe my picker’s broken? But if Marcy’s evenslightlybetter at choosing than I am, maybe this one won’t leave me worse than he found me.
I told her I wanted stability and a fresh start. She told me she had just the guy.
A reclusive artist in the mountains.Hudson Mills. She said his name like it should mean something to me, but it didn’t.
I shift on the seat and look down at Pickles. “Well, buddy. We’re almost there. You ready to meet your new dad?”
Pickles yawns and looks at me like she’s not going to get excited for yet another one of my hommes du jour.
I sigh and press my cheek to the window again, trying not to let the panic win. I told Marcy I wanted someone steady—but the ambiguity of that word really didn’t settle in until right now that I was being matched… permanently
The bus grinds up another curve, tires crunching through patches of rock and pine needles. I tighten my arms around my backpack and glance down at Pickles, nestled in the crook of my arm like a loaf of warm bread. He gives me a slow blink, the kind that feels like a hug. LikeI got you, lady. Even if no one else does.
And with this new venture, I’ve come around to the idea that a marriage based on a business arrangement rather than the blinding compulsion of love is probably a better choice for me.
This is different. An arrangement. A contract. A decision.
Someone else—someone with actual vetting skills and a clipboard—matched me to a man who, on paper, wants a wife. Not a girlfriend. Not a hookup. Not someone to text back when he feels like it. Awife.
And maybe that sounds cold. Maybe that sounds mechanical. But you know what? After everything I’ve been through, mechanical sounds like a vacation.
The bus comes to a stop at the bottom of a long road. The bus driver tells me this is my stop and I grab Pickles, my backpack, and start up the road. The steep hill is forcing me to take deep breaths and it’s actually quite calming. I’ve never been so thankful to be this out of shape.
After about ten minutes a cabin comes into view. I walk closer, my heart beating faster. I stand on the creaking wooden porch, staring at the dark green door like it might bite me. Myheart is thumping so loud in my chest I’m half-worried he’ll hear it before I even knock. Pickles shifts in my arms, mewing softly like he’s sensing the tension.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Moment of truth.”
I raise my fist and knock three times.
There’s a long pause. Too long. I wonder if maybe he’s not home. Or maybe he saw me through the window and decided I wasn’t worth opening the door for. I knock again. My breath clouds in the cold mountain air. I bounce slightly on my heels, nerves sparking like static under my skin.
And then the door swings open.
And—oh.
Oh no. He’s… hot. Like,seriouslyhot.
Not the kind of hot you see in magazines or on Instagram with perfect angles and filtered skin. No. This is real,ruggedhot. Grumpy mountain man hot. Brooding hot.
I’ve never felt this way before. The warmth gathering between my legs and the butterflies trying to fly up and out of my stomach have me wanting to run. I want to stop staring but I can’t.
He’s tall—at least six-three—with wide shoulders, long arms, and a chest that fills out the plain henley shirt he’s wearing like it was stitched just for him. His jaw is sharp, dusted with a salt-and-pepper beard that somehow makes his mouth look even more kissable. His hair is tousled like he just ran his hands through it, a few strands falling over a furrowed brow. And his eyes—dear God—his eyes are a stormy gray, locked on me like I’m the last surprise he wanted to see today.
But here I am. Standing on his porch with a cat and a backpack and way too many feelings for someone who’s supposed to be entering a strictly practical marriage.
I expected old. Wrinkled. Maybe balding. Hairy in weird places. Someone with nose hair and soup stains and an odor problem. Not…this.
