Page 22 of Wood You Marry Me?

“Keep it that way. If you really care about my sister, help her get healthy so she can write her dissertation and get the fuck out of here.”

Dylan was trusting me to do the right thing and be a good man. And I was not going to let him or Hazel down.

I held out my hand.

“You have my word.”

Chapter10

Hazel

Remy shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked the dirt. “This is it.”

I gasped when I got a good look at the home before me. It was beautiful. So much more than he had described. I rarely ventured out of town and had never been up here. The trees were enormous, and the air was crisp and clean.

“This is the little cabin?” I turned to him with my hands on my hips. The trailer I grew up in could fit on the front porch.

“Henri built it. He lives up there now with Alice and their kids.” He pointed up the hill to a massive timber-style home that looked like it had been cut out of a magazine and pasted into the Maine landscape.

He dug his phone out of his pocket and held out his arm, snapping a picture of us with the cabin in the background.

“Come take a look. Then we can grab your stuff.” And with that, he was heading toward the front porch.

My feet were rooted to the dirt driveway. Entering this home—the one we were going to share—behind myhusbandfelt too intimate. This was inevitable, of course, since we were married. But other than my college roommates and Dylan, I had never lived with anyone before. Definitely not a guy.

My husband.

Saying the words and sharing a chaste kiss, those parts were easy. But this? It felt like too much.

“Oh.” He spun on his heel and, wearing a grin, smacked his forehead. It was disarming and pretty adorable. “I forgot.”

Before I knew what was happening, Remy rushed for me and swept me off my feet, then strode for the door.

I was momentarily shocked by the feeling of his hands on my body and the effortless way he scooped me up into his arms. If I was a Victorian noblewoman, I would have properly swooned.

When I pulled myself out of my stupor, I threw my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life while protesting loudly. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Carrying my wife over the threshold. That’s a thing, right?”

I bit my tongue, secretly delighted he thought of doing this and terrified I’d do something stupid like attempt to stick my tongue down his throat. His arms were so thick and strong, and I was dangerously close to his neck, which happened to smell especially amazing. The lumberjack pheromones were powerful. Someone should study this. I’d make a note to mention it to some of my biochem colleagues.

“Put me down,” I said weakly, secretly reveling in the feel of my fake husband manhandling me with ease.

“Nope. Not a chance. Here, take a selfie of us.”

I groaned and took the phone he still had clutched in the hand under my knees.

Effortlessly, he shifted me in his arms so our heads were close. I angled the phone and buried my face in his neck, using the opportunity to take a big old sniff of his manly scent.

He grinned, looking straight on at the camera, making sure the log cabin behind us was in the shots.

They were cute photos. The kind I’d think were real if I were mindlessly scrolling online. The couple in them looked silly and in love. Their expressions told a story that was in no way true.

But this moment? It was real. Remy carried me up onto the porch, unlocked the door with one hand, and then dramatically carried me across the threshold. Once inside, he set on my feet on the hardwood floor.

I crossed my arms over my thin T-shirt, angry that my traitorous nipples were trying to escape my cotton bra. I looked down, unable to make eye contact, lest I start humping his leg.

“You know, you’re kind of cute when you are embarrassed,” he said, tipping up my chin with two fingers.

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