Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
Her smile falters. “That’s a good idea,” she says, nodding. But she says it like she doesn’t believe it. And I truly hope she doesn’t.
I swallow the ache that rises in my throat and give her a tight smile, then head out before I do something stupid—like ask her to stay with me. Like ask if we can try that kiss again, slower this time.
The studio is cool and quiet, and I settle into the cot tucked in the corner. I’m not used to this—whatever this is. Wanting someone and not just physically. Wanting toknowher. Wanting to hear her laugh again, not because I said something funny, but because she feels safe. I wantherto feel safe here.
My chest is tight, and I don’t know if it’s nerves or something worse. Something deeper. She’s only been here a few hours, and already she’s rearranging my whole outlook on life. She’s inside every thought. In every brushstroke I imagine. In every breath I take.
I turn over. But I can’t get comfortable. Not when all I can see is her face, lit up by the soft light in the living room, leaning in, and gently offering me her soft, pillowy lips. And those aren’t the only lips I fantasize about. I want more. So much more.
CHAPTER
FOUR
DAISY
The smellof coffee wakes me before I open my eyes. It’s warm and rich, and when I step into the kitchen, he’s already there—Hudson Mills, in all his rugged, sleepy-eyed glory, standing at the counter in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, pouring two mugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Daisy Mills. It has a nice ring to it. I think I can get used to that.
I try not to smile too much as I sit down and take a sip. “You make a mean cup of coffee. That’s a green flag for a future husband.”
He snorts. “Don’t call me that before caffeine.”
I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip. It’s perfect. Hot, strong, a little bitter—like him, honestly. But I’ll dial it back on the husband talk—I don’t want to scare him off on day two.
We sit in silence for a moment, not awkward, not forced. Just… quiet.
“So,” I say, gently breaking the stillness, “maybe we should move on to the next part of the agency rules?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Yep. Hobbies,” I say, nodding like it’s written in stone. “It says we should share our interests, explore each other’s worlds.”
He blinks at me like he’s waiting for the catch. “What, like... now?”
“Mmhmm. They told me you were a painter. You should show me your paintings.”
That gets him. He hesitates—just long enough to tell me I’m not the first to ask.
Eventually, he stands, jerks his head toward the back of the house. “Alright. Come on.”
I follow him down a short hallway and through a door that creaks open into a sun-drenched room full of canvases and turpentine and the wild, chaotic smell of oil paint. I inhale it like it’s the most beautiful perfume I’ve ever smelled.
“Oh wow,” I breathe, stepping inside. “This is... incredible.”
He looks down, almost embarrassed. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s a masterpiece of a mess,” I say, spinning slowly in place, taking it all in. Canvases are leaned against the walls—some nearly finished, some half-started, and one massive one on an easel that looks like it could be drawn from the back porch.
“You painted these?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shrugs. “Most of them.”
I step closer to the biggest canvas, tilting my head as I admire the swirls of color and emotion tangled across it. He steps beside me to say something, but as he does, we bump into each other—stuck between two easels. I stumble a bit, and when I turn my head, I realize our bodies are completely pressed together—hips, shoulders, everything.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He’s right there, close enough that I can see every line of his face—the way his brow furrows in surprise, the sharp curve of his jaw. My heart hammers wildly, heat rising low and slow through my belly. His breath catches, and I swear I can feel theelectric pull between us, like a current running just beneath my skin.
