Chosen for the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Mail Order Bride)

Epilogue - Ciara

ONE YEAR LATER

“Focus, Ciara,” Max rumbles behind me, his hands firm on my hips as we shift into the next tai chi move. Morning sunlight filters through the pines, glinting off the gold band on his finger.

The gold band I gave him. My husband . It still feels surreal.

“I am focusing,” I lie, biting back a grin. His breath ghosts over my neck, warm and distracting. “You’re the one who can’t keep his hands to himself during ‘flowing mountain streams’ or whatever this move’s called.”

His chuckle vibrates against my back. “You invented that move last week. And hey, if you’d stop wiggling your ass?—”

“It’s meditative wiggling.” I crane my neck to smirk at him. He’s grown a beard this past year and all it does is frame that sinful mouth that’s memorized every inch of me. “You’re just jealous my hip circles are sexier than yours.”

“Damn right they are.” He spins me to face him, his grip sliding to my waist. “But if we don’t finish this session, you’ll be groaning about your knees all day.”

“You love my groans,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders into the next movement. Tai chi’s been a game-changer for my joints—along with Max’s... creative physical therapy.

We glide through the final poses, his steady presence centering me. When we finish, he presses a sweaty kiss to my temple. “Proud of you, Mrs. Green.”

“Even though I cheated during ‘embracing the moon’?”

“ Especially because you cheated.” He swats my backside, laughing when I yelp. “Now sit. Wine time.”

I collapse onto the blanket he’s spread under our favorite oak, watching him stride toward the cabin—all broad shoulders and tapered waist, his shirt clinging to last summer’s tan. Marriage looks obscenely good on him.

He returns with two glasses and a bottle labeled DANGER: MOUNTAIN MAN JUICE in Sharpie. “Duke’s latest homemade vintage,” he explains, pouring. “Says it’s ‘subtle, with hints of regret and bear spray.’”

I snort. “Hallie texted that Lennox might actually show up to the dinner party tonight. Pray for us.”

Max hands me a glass. “If he side-eyes me one more time I’m volunteering him for dish duty.”

“He’s just salty you're hotter than him.”

“Obviously.” He clinks his glass to mine. “To the writer who stole my sanity. And my last name.”

Heat blooms in my chest. My poetry collection hits shelves next month—a raw, unapologetic journey through pain, love, and finding strength in a body that fought me. My agent still cries when she reads “Mountain Man Epiphany,” the poem I wrote after Max carried me home that first day.

“Should’ve made the dedication page longer,” I say, tracing his jaw. “‘To Max, who didn’t freak out when I faked an ankle sprain and forgot my meds on our wedding night.’”

“Or when your mom interrogated me about our ‘procreation timeline’ at the rehearsal dinner.” He shudders. “Traumatizing.”

I sip the wine—sweet with a smoky kick—and stretch my legs, reveling in the lack of stiffness. “Think they’ll ambush us again tonight?”

“Ro promised she’ll tackle your mom if she mentions grandkids.” His thumb brushes my ankle, I kick off my sandal, sliding my foot up his thigh.

His gaze darkens. He doesn’t hesitate. One moment, he’s lounging; the next, I’m pinned beneath him, grass tickling my bare shoulders. “Demanding little hellion,” he growls, nipping my neck.

“Learned from the best.” I arch into him, dragging his shirt hem up. “But we’ve got forty minutes before we need to leave...”

His teeth graze my earlobe. “Plenty of time.”

He kisses me, slow and deep, sealing promises we’ve made a thousand times.

My MountainMax66.

My mountain man.