Page 9 of Merry'd to the Mountain Man
I cross my arms and tilt my head. “You do realize weareactually married, right?”
That earns me the smallest huff of a laugh. “Yeah. I guess we are.”
“Then what’s the big deal? We’ll just act like a couple for a few days.” I shrug, trying to ignore the little flip in my stomach. “This place is too beautiful to let anyone tear it down for some resort. I can fake being your loving wife for Christmas.”
He stares at me, studying my face like he’s trying to find the catch. I just smile and reach for the tangled string of light in the box in front of me.
“Honestly,” I add. “When I saw your expression, I thought you were upset about the decorations.”
He glances around the living room area of the cabin, taking in the garland on the mantel, the Christmas quilt draped over the back of the couch, and the plaid ribbon twined around the wood banister. His expression softens.
“No,” he says quietly. “It already looks so great. The place hasn’t felt this festive since—” He stops, his gaze landing on the framed photo on the mantle. “Since my Grams passed.”
I follow his gaze. The photo shows an older couple standing in the front of this same cabin, snow falling all around them. She’s smiling at the camera, full of radiant and soft, while he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“That’s her?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Her and Gramps built this place together. They did everything together for fifty years.”
I stare at the picture a little longer. “That’s how I want someone to look at me one day,” I murmur.
When I glance back, Cole’s watching me. His eyes look steady and unreadable. My breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the room feels smaller, warmer.
I blink, unsure I said that out loud.
“Uh,” I stammer, pointing to the garland on the table. “I was thinking we could hang that outside to make the porch look festive.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, still watching me. “Festive sounds good.”
But even as I turn away, pretending to fuss with the lights, I can feel his gaze linger on me. And for the first time since that first night in the diner, I’m not sure who’s pretending anymore.
CHAPTER 8
Cole
In the days leading up to Christmas blur together in a strange mix of quiet chores, half-finished conversations, and way too much pretending that I don’t notice the way Frankie’s smile changes a room.
We’ve been doing what she calls “marriage boot camp.” Her idea.
Every night after dinner, she quizzes me.
Favorite color? Red.
She grins when I say it but doesn’t ask why. Probably for the best, because if I told her it’s the color of her scarf, her lips, and the flush of her cheeks when she laughs, she’d run for the hills.
Her turn.
Favorite color? Blue-gray.
She says it casually into her cup of hot cocoa, but her eyes flick up to mine, and I catch the faintest smirk. And I wish so much that I could see into that pretty mind of hers.
By Christmas Eve, we’ve learned everything we could about each other, down to our pet peeves, death row meals, the superpower we wish we had, and who snores (spoiler alert, it’s not me).
She even admitted to me why she took me up on my ridiculous offer to marry me for Christmas. And it took some massive self control on my part to keep in what I really thought of her family and how they treated such a kind and funny and beautiful woman to myself.
The cabin looks like a postcard—garland on every beam, tree lights twinkling against the window pain, and a fire crackling low.
It almost feels real.
