Page 7 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
She’s kneeling now, scooping up her darling little beast and murmuring to it like it’s a baby, nose scrunched in apology and affection, unaware that she just completely disarmed a man who’s made an art of keeping people out.
It doesn’t help that she is wearing a dress that leaves little to the imagination. It hugs her curves in all the right places, accentuating her small, but ample cleavage and the swell of her hips. I can feel my pulse quicken as I watched her move.
I ask her about her trip here. In reality I don’t care how she got here, I’m just sure of one thing—I’m never going to let her leave.
Her voice is soft but not timid. There’s something steady about it, like she’s used to being polite in places she doesn’t fully trust.
I clear my throat. “You, uh… found the place okay?”
“Eventually,” she says, grinning a little. “Your driveway's like a ski slope.”
I huff a laugh. She smiles again.
Then, almost like she’s forcing herself to be brave, she says, “I figured before I unpack and settle in, we could go over the rules together.”
I blink. “The rules?”
She tilts her head, her brows drawing together. “Yeah, the agency’s rules. You know… Mountain Mates? They said both parties are expected to review the arrangement and agree on boundaries, expectations, shared responsibilities?—”
“Right,” I cut in quickly, nodding like I’ve got a clue. “Of course. The rules.”
She gives me a look—like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking or just slow. I smile a little too wide, hoping it covers the fact that my brain has just hit a brick wall.
I haven’t read a single word from this agency. Didn’t even know I was signed up for it until forty five minutes before she got here.
“Do you, uh… have the list?” I ask, gesturing vaguely.
“Yeah,” she says, and pulls out a folded sheet of paper from her bag like a teacher ready for day one. “I highlighted the ones I think are most important. There’s a part about financial arrangements, living quarters, and whether or not we’re sharing a bedroom right away…”
I cough. “Sharing a… bedroom?”
She blushes—bright red. “Only if we both agree. I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying it’s on the form.”
Jesus. I nod like a man who’s been hit over the head with a shovel. “Of course. Naturally. The form.”
She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. I get the feeling she’s not buying the act.
We sit across from each other at my old wooden kitchen table, a crinkled piece of paper between us—the so-called Mountain Mates Pre-Wedding Checklist. I can’t really see it. It’s got little boxes with prompts like“Discuss shared values”and“Talk about family traditions”and, of course, the boldest one at the top.
She reads to me:“2. You’re going to be married soon. Ask about each other’s life.”
It’s surreal. I feel like I’m in some sort of experimental theater production. Except I can’t stop looking at her. Daisy. She’s sitting there with her cat curled up on her lap like he owns the damn place, and she’s biting her lip like she’s trying not to smile.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “So,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Tell me about your life.”
She lets out a little breath through her nose, her eyebrows lifting. “Which part? The thrilling absence of a social circle? Or the extremely glamorous way I had to borrow bus fare to get here?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You really know how to sell yourself.”
“Well,” she says with a playful shrug, “I didn’t say I was here for my sparkling reputation. I’m here because, believe it or not, I’m incredibly dateable in theory.”
“In theory,” I repeat, grinning. “That’s promising.”
She nudges the paper toward me. “Your turn, Picasso. Tell me about your thriving personal life.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Let’s see. I talk to my best friend once every couple weeks, mostly to yell at him. I haven’t been into town in weeks. I paint things, then ignore the world. Sometimes I yell at squirrels.”
She laughs. Full, real laughter. It lights her face up in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
