Page 8 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
“You yell at squirrels?”
“They steal my apples off the trees,” I say, dead serious. “Don’t let the fluffy tails fool you.”
“I’ll add that to the checklist:Potential squirrel feud—ongoing.”
We’re both smiling. Not polite, forced smiles. Real ones. The kind that sneak up on you and feel like sunlight cracking through after a long storm.
Her eyes flick back to the list. “No friends,” she murmurs.
“Some friends,” I correct, “I tend to keep a very small social circle.”
We both try to shrug it off, to make it sound lighter than it is. But there’s a moment of quiet honesty hanging in the spacebetween us. Neither of us has anyone. Not really. And yet here we are, sitting across from a stranger we’re supposed to marry.
"Should we move on to the third rule?" she asks, her voice soft, almost teasing.
I blink. “Third rule?"
She rises from her chair slowly, one hand still resting on the back of it, her other brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She starts walking toward me, and every step makes my heart pound a little harder. Her cat stays put on the table like this is all routine—like this happens every day.
I straighten up. "What are you doing?"
She gives a slight, amused shrug. "Following the third rule."
I squint. "Which is...?"
She stops just a foot away from me, looking up through her lashes like she’s daring me to step back—or maybe hoping I don’t. “3. Initiate physical contact.” she says matter-of-factly. “The agency says it helps build connection and trust. They even recommend... a kiss.”
“A kiss,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice even.
She nods, serious as can be. “It’s encouraged, but if you don’t want to…” She looks down sheepishly.
I swallow. Hard. “Right... the agency rules.” I try to sound like I’ve known them all along, like I’ve memorized the whole ridiculous handbook. My palms are sweating. I haven’t kissed anyone in years, haven’t even wanted to. But now, with her this close, my body has other ideas.
I move first—just a quick step forward. I tell myself it’ll be fast, mechanical. A box to check off. Nothing more.
I lean down. She lifts her chin.
My lips touch hers.
It’s meant to be brief, a polite tap, something forgettable.
But then something happens.
Her hand grazes my arm—barely there, but enough—and I can’t pull back. The moment stretches, bends, twists around us like time forgot to keep going. Her lips are soft and warm, and the way she leans into it—not eager, not shy, just sure—knocks something loose inside me.
I finally pull away, slower than I meant to, blinking like I’m waking from a dream.
She clears her throat, cheeks flushed, eyes wide but not embarrassed. “That was... probably sufficient for rule three.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice lower than I expect. “Definitely... sufficient.”
Her lips still linger on mine, even though the kiss is over.
I’m hooked.
Not just on her lips, soft and unsure. Not just on the way she smelled… sweet as honey. I’m hooked on the way her eyes fluttered shut. The tiny sound she made when I leaned in. The way my heart raced because I hadn’t kissed anyone in years. Because I didn’t want to. Not until her.
“I should let you have the bedroom,” I say, voice a little too low, trying to sound casual. “I’ll… I’ll sleep in the studio.”
