Page 12 of The Mountain Man's Irresistible Bride
We finish Wren’s room, and I keep painting the walls in the main bedroom, sage green, warm and earthy, like something out of a magazine. I thought it’d be comforting, a space we could both call home. Now, every brushstroke feels heavy.
I avoid Elias, not out of spite, but because being around him hurts. The way he looks at me one moment and turns to stone the next. The way he kissed me like he couldn’t breathe without it, then called it a mistake.
I give him space. I stop teasing him and stop asking about his projects. I slip in and out of rooms like a guest instead of a wife. He notices, I know he does, but he doesn’t say a word.
Fine. If he wants distance, he’s got it. But every time we pass in the hall, the heat is still there. Thick and quiet and waiting to boil over. Every brush of my arm against his sends a charge down my spine. Every time I catch him watching me, that raw hunger flickering in his eyes before he shuts it down, my breath catches. It’s torture.
Then Wren shows up. A day early, unannounced.
Elias and I are in the middle of moving firewood into the shed when a dusty SUV pulls into the drive. I straighten, heart hammering. Elias stiffens beside me.
The door swings open, and out steps a fifteen-year-old hurricane in ripped black jeans, a denim jacket covered in pins, and a scowl sharp enough to wound.
“Uncle Elias,” she mutters, slinging a beat-up duffel over her shoulder.
He meets her halfway with a quiet nod. “Wren.”
I hang back, unsure of what to do. She notices me. Her gaze slides over my bright leggings and paint-splattered tee. One pierced brow arches. “You’re the wife?”
“I’m Juniper,” I say, stepping forward. “Nice to meet you.”
She shrugs. “Didn’t think you were real.”
Elias clears his throat. “Let’s get your stuff inside.”
We help her carry her things into the room I’d worked so hard on. I’d hung twinkle lights and bought a fuzzy rug. I even tucked a new set of headphones on her pillow. She doesn’t say thank you, but her eyes linger on the lights. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t scoff either. That’s a win in my book.
That night, Wren doesn’t speak much. She picks at her dinner and stays glued to her phone.
I know what it feels like to land somewhere unfamiliar and try to find your footing. Elias retreats to the porch after dinner. I wash dishes alone.
The next few days are tense. I catch Wren watching me curiously sometimes.
One afternoon, I find her sketching in the corner of the living room. She slams the notebook shut when I approach.
“You draw?”
She shrugs.
“Can I see?”
She hesitates, then pushes the notebook across the table. It’s good. Really good. Moody and expressive. She’s talented.
I don’t gush. I just hand it back and say, “That one with the lantern in the woods? That’s my favorite.”
Her lips twitch—the closest I’ve seen to a smile.
That night, I leave a fresh sketchpad and pencils on her bed. She doesn’t say anything, but the next morning, I find one of my sunflowers drawn in the corner of the page. A quiet thank you.
* * *
Wren’s presence changes everything. We have to start pretending harder. Shared dinners, short conversations, and coordinated routines. A real marriage—or something close enough that the state won’t question it.
At first, I think it’s just acting. That Elias is gritting his teeth and enduring it, but then there are moments. Tiny shifts. The way he lets his hand brush the small of my back when Wren’s nearby. The way his eyes linger when I stretch up to reach the top shelf.
We’re living in close quarters now, three people in a house that suddenly feels small. Every glance between Elias and me crackles. Every shared breath seems to hover between tension and something more.
Then the storm rolls in.
