Page 5 of The Mountain Man's Irresistible Bride
She hands me a bag. “Maple sugar cookies, on the house. You’ll need something sweet to survive living with that one.”
Elias grunts again, which only makes her and Dottie laugh.
“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” Annie teases.
“He grunts when he’s happy,” I say. “And sometimes when he’s not.”
“He’s been a ghost since his parents passed, and now his sister’s gone too,” Dottie says gently. “Didn’t think he’d ever let someone in again.”
Elias stiffens beside me. I reach over and take his hand. He doesn’t pull away.
We browse for a while, taking in handmade candles, wood carvings, and quilts. He doesn’t say much, but he never strays far from me. His presence is large, solid, and quiet. I’m halfway through debating between two scented soaps when I hear it.
“Well, if it isn’t the bride of Boone.”
I turn to see a pair of older women whispering behind a display of crocheted scarves. Their voices aren’t exactly quiet.
“Didn’t even know he was seeing anyone.”
“Heard she came from some website. Mail-order, can you believe that?”
I square my shoulders, but before I can say anything, Elias steps behind me. One large hand settles on the small of my back.
“Something to say?” His voice is calm, but there’s a warning in it that makes the women shuffle off without a word. He doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t look at me. Just stares after them until they’re gone.
“Elias?” I ask softly.
He finally looks down, and there’s something stormy in his eyes. Protective. Intense.
“You okay?”
I nod. “It’s fine. People talk.”
“They don’t talk to you like that.”
My chest tightens, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
We keep walking, and the air between us shifts. Every time someone looks too long, Elias shifts closer. When a guy at the cider booth tries to flirt with me, asking if I’m new in town, smiling too much, Elias doesn’t say a word.
He just steps in, slow and deliberate, and wraps an arm around my waist. Not subtle. Not accidental.
The guy blinks, nods, and retreats fast.
Later, as we sit on a bench with cider and donuts, I glance over at him.
“You were jealous.”
His jaw ticks. “No.”
“Oh, come on.” I sip my cider. “You nearly vaporized that poor cider guy.”
“He was leering.”
“He asked if I liked extra cinnamon.”
“Exactly.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and Elias looks like he wants to argue, but also maybe wants to kiss me. Or throttle me. Possibly both.
