Page 2 of Haunting the Mountain Man
“Not like it was signed in blood,” she scoffs, then quieter, “Some of us already learned the hard way promises don’t mean a damn thing.”
I snap my fingers, pointedly ignoring Noel’s darkening mood.
“Now that would be a good idea!” I shout. “We should totally do that! I have a knitting needle around here somewhere…”
I start to playfully search behind the counter for said needle as Noel’s face pales. Knitting is a recent hobby of mine, and for the life of me I can’t divine the magic that makes the yarn weave without tangling into knots. My supplies are at home though, stashed away in a closet where my cats can’t find them.
And even if theywerehere, I doubt my knitting needle could draw blood. I’m not going to tell Noel though.
“Our original pact isfine,” Noel rushes to assure me. “And think about the others, they would feel so left out if we did this without them.”
I’m sure they wouldn’t. Not even Lynn and she’s more into the metaphysical than I am.
My phone receives a notification interrupting our squabble. It’s a delicate chiming sound unique to one app. One we both knowverywell. Pearl’s Mail Order Grooms.
I have a match.
Our eyes meet over the counter, and delight sparks in her blue eyes. She might pretend to be a scrooge, but she can’t hide the hope shining bright in her eyes.
She wants someone to love just as much as I do. More even, considering her past. Noel was left at the altar on Christmas Eve last year when her fiancé showed up to their wedding with another woman on his arm. The audacity of that son of a bitch still amazes me.
Abandoning the fake search, I whip out my phone at a speed unseen on the mortal plane.
Someone picked me.
The man’s profile doesn’t offer much. A few photos taken at poor angles, with unflattering filters making them appear like old polaroids, faded, and crinkled. If these weren’t taken ironically, I’d be sure the man didn’t know how to work a smart phone. In every single image his face is hidden or obscured.
I should swipe away but there’s something familiar about the man. Or maybe I just like the murder documentary style photos.
The rest of his profile is a mess. No bio and a random assortment of likes and dislikes that are at odds with one another.
He’s an early riser but loves nights spent under the full moon. Wants to be cremated, weird thing to disclose on a dating app, but loves cemeteries. Then there’s his taste in music. He must be an audiophile because I don’t recognize most of the artists and the few I do know aren’t touring anymore.
“Kind of creepy, isn’t he?” Noel asks before sipping her black coffee with a grimace.
“No.”
“You can’t see his face at all,” she argues.
“He’s mysterious.”
She blanches but I’m already sending him a message. He’s either a serial killer or bad at social media. Only one thing is certain. He’s not one of the dime a dozen lumberjacks who call this mountain home and right now that’s good enough for me.
Cole
“Mail order groom? You? Be serious.”
Farmer Dan is younger than me by three decades. The kid just graduated high school, practically still a child and it would be more appropriate for him to marry the woman that’s got me twisted into knots. The age-gap between them is certainly smaller.
“If that’s what it takes,” I reply. “You have to be bold when you go after what you want.”
“No more sage advice,” Dan groans. “Please, no.”
Buzz and Casanova chuckle as the nineteen-year-old walks away from the picnic table we’re sitting at for our lunch break. Working at the Carmichael Lumberyard isn’t a glamorous job, but it pays well and the crew of men I work with are decent guys.
Calhoun joined us earlier this year after he moved to Crescent Ridge to marry Madison, one of Sabrina’s best friends. Luckily, he’s taking a vacation with his family or I’d be dealing with his overprotective big brother routine. Like the other mail ordergrooms that married into her friend group, he’s become a surrogate big brother to all his wife’s friends.
I don’t need that complication right now. I’ll deal with him after I’ve got my ring on her finger.
