
Matched to the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Mail Order Bride)
Ella
T he moment I walk into the event hall, I wish I hadn't.
Baby pink.
It's everywhere. And I do mean everywhere.
It had always been my cousin Clarissa's favorite color, but this was ridiculous. The walls are draped in a gauzy fabric that shimmers under the lights, casting a rosy hue over everything. I feel like I'm trapped in a bubble gum bubble with no way out.
The tables are covered in pink satin cloths, with huge vases of pink roses as centerpieces that might have a chance at looking classy if it wasn't for the balloons.
Oh my, the balloons.
Floating pearlescent pink bunches are everywhere. It's as if Aunt Beryl has taken the entire room and dumped it in a vat of cotton candy. Over the top, and just an inch shy of completely ridiculous.
Okay, who am I trying to kid? It's at least a mile past ridiculous.
Not that I expect anything less.
I clutch the gift bag, the tissue paper crinkling in my grip, and find the gift table. Of course, the bag I'd chosen with the cute cartoon bride on the side stands out among the table full of—you guessed it— pink gift bags. At least, the gift inside will be acceptable. It should be since I got it off Clarissa's detailed registry.
It's only after I turn around, looking for the bar, that I notice every other guest in attendance is dressed in head-to-toe pink. Looking down at my black dress, chosen because it was the only thing in my closet that didn't make me feel as if I were stuffed into a sausage casing, I realize I stand out like...well, a black mark on an otherwise flawlessly pink confection. Also, I most certainly did not get the pink memo.
I blow out the breath I've been holding since walking in. "Just get through an hour," I mutter to myself.
It's only after a woman I've never met shoots me a dirty look and says, "The gift opening isn't until two," as if I care, that I realize I spoke aloud.
"That's fine," I tell her and force a smile I don't feel on my face.
I'm hoping it's enough to dissuade any further conversation, but I'm not that lucky. "You're not wearing pink," she says as if I hadn't noticed.
"What?" I put my hand to my mouth in faux horror. "You mean, this isn't pink?"
The woman snorts and walks away, no doubt to discuss the bride's awful cousin to anyone who will listen. Not like I care. Well, not very much.
Aunt Beryl and my cousin Clarissa are the only family I have left since my parents drowned in a boating accident when I was sixteen. Apparently, Aunt Beryl always held some sort of grudge from childhood against my mother.
A grudge that was transferred to me upon her death. She'd spent the last six years chipping away at my self-worth and subtly putting me down while simultaneously love-bombing me.
Clarissa, two years my senior, is a carbon copy of her mother. Only worse because she doesn't even try to hide her distaste for my existence.
It is one hundred percent a toxic relationship and I know I should just walk away. But the fact that I literally don't have anyone else in the whole world binds me to them in some kind of weird dysfunctional way.
"Oh ," Auntie Beryl's voice cuts through the pink fog in my brain. "You managed to make it." Her signature cloying scent of synthetic rose hits my senses moments before her arm snakes through mine, and she pulls me close. "Oh, darling. You're not wearing pink."
"Nobody told me." And I don't think for a moment it wasn't intentional.
"Nonsense. I'm sure you were told." She waves her hand in the air before changing the subject. "What do you think? Isn't it all completely gorgeous?"
Baby pink would not be my choice for a wedding color, but this is Clarissa's wedding we're here to celebrate. A full seven months before the actual wedding, I should add. Clarissa has managed to organize almost twelve months of festivities to warm up for the big day. It's all completely exhausting and unnecessary if you ask me.
But no one is.
"It's lovely," I lie to my aunt. "Clarissa must be thrilled."
"Of course she is." Aunt Beryl turns to hold out an arm for the bride herself who is, not surprisingly, wearing white. "Aren't you, darling?"
"Thrilled?" Clarissa shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm marrying the best man in the whole world." She not so casually flicks her ring in my direction, and I try not to roll my eyes. "Of course I'm thrilled."
I don't know about the best man in the whole world , but Bill is definitely the wimpiest man in the whole world. Every time I see him, he looks positively terrified of my cousin. I'm sure he's a nice enough guy, but just like the pink celebration, he wouldn't be my choice of fiancé.
"After all, I'm only going to do this once," she says. "It has to be perfect."
"And I'm only going to do it once, too," Aunt Beryl adds. "I can't imagine you'll ever get married, ."
Her comment hits me in the gut the way it always does. It's not the first time she's made such a comment. And it won't be the last. Both Aunt Beryl and Clarissa never miss an opportunity to tell me how I'll never meet a man who will love me .
Still, the comment stings a little sharper than usual, and I'm replaying it over and over in my head long after I escape the bridal shower and am tucked into bed with a bowl of popcorn and my laptop.
Maybe they're right? Maybe I will never meet the man of my dreams. I'm certainly not going to meet anyone working from home with my head stuffed in my laptop, building websites for other people.
Putting the popcorn aside, I click on the website I've had bookmarked on my browser for over a year since my best friend Ava told me about it.
Mountain Mates.
When Ava first confessed that she'd signed up to the mail-order bride website and only days after getting her match, had hopped a bus to meet the mountain man who had since become her husband, I thought she was insane.
But they'd been happily married for almost a year—correction, they were deliriously happy—and they'd just welcomed their first baby.
Maybe there was something to the whole mail-order thing?
Before I can talk myself out of it, again, I type in my information and click submit.
There's only one way to find out.