Page 3 of The Mountain Man's Irresistible Bride
“Do you, Elias Boone, agree to this marriage?”
“Yes,” I say. My voice is rougher than I intend, like there’s something stuck in my throat, I can’t clear.
“And do you, Juniper Lancaster, agree to this marriage?”
“I do,” she says, her voice steady.
I glance at her, just for a second. She looks serious, determined, and maybe a little nervous. There’s a flicker of something else in her eyes, too—hope, maybe.
When it’s done, she says with a teasing smile, “Well, that was romantic. Think we should celebrate or maybe take a honeymoon in the backyard?”
I don’t answer because if I let myself laugh, I might not stop, and if I keep looking at her like that, I’ll forget this is temporary. Forget why I started all this in the first place.
Back at the cabin, she follows me through the front door and scans the open layout. Her eyes roam over the unfinished walls, the exposed beams, the dust and tools everywhere, like she’s trying to see what it could become.
“So,” she says, arms crossed. “What exactly are you doing to the house?”
“Fixing it up.”
“For what?”
I pause, then answer honestly. “For Wren and I, and you too, now.”
She tilts her head. “What kind of fixing?”
“Adding a full bedroom. Expanding the living area. Putting in insulation before winter. Right now, there’s not enough space.”
Her face softens. “Can I help?”
“No.” The word comes out too fast, too harsh.
She blinks, then lifts one brow. “Because I’m a girl?”
“Because being around you is already too damn much.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. Her mouth parts slightly, but she doesn’t look offended.
“Too much?” she asks, stepping closer.
I shift, uncomfortable under her gaze. “You’re loud. You hum when you walk.”
She studies me, unblinking. “You keep saying you want space, Elias. But I think what you really want is to pretend none of this matters. That you can just survive without letting anyone in.”
I clench my jaw. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” she says. “But I know people, and you’ve got that look, the one that says you’ve lost too much already and you’re afraid to lose more. But guess what? I’ve lost too, and I’m still here. Still showing up and ready to swing a hammer.”
She reaches past me and grabs a tool off the workbench. Her fingers brush mine. It’s barely a touch, but it burns.
“I want to be a part of this, Elias. Not just the walls. All of it.”
I should say no. I should walk away. But the look in her eyes—it’s stubborn and warm and hopeful, and hell if it doesn’t break something loose inside me.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You can help.”
“Good,” she says brightly, grabbing a hammer like she’s been waiting for this moment all her life.
We spend the next few hours side by side, framing the bedroom wall. She listens when I explain things, catches on quickly, and asks questions that make me smile even when I try not to. Her boots get dusty. Her curls fall into her eyes. She smears paint on her cheek without realizing it, and when I reach out to wipe it away, I almost forget to pull my hand back.
