Chapter 2 The Agreement
THE AGREEMENT
CLARA
What the hell did I just agree to?
I sat in my truck in the clinic parking lot, engine off, staring at my phone. Eli's number was already saved in my contacts—Eli Hayes—like he was someone I'd known for years instead of a stranger who'd offered to marry me three hours ago.
My hands were shaking. Not from cold, but from the magnitude of what I'd just committed to. Marriage. For dirt and rotting wood. For a dream I might never build.
Except it was everything. I knew that much.
Three years away. Three years building a life in Portland that never quite fit.
I'd told myself I was done with small towns and mountains and the weight of everyone knowing your business.
But here I was, back for Mae's funeral, back for the will reading, staying in the Pineview Motel while I figured out what came next.
Back because this place had never really let me go.
I drove to Aunt Mae's property—my property, if I could pull this off—and parked at the end of the dirt road. The cabin sat nestled against the treeline, logs weathered silver-gray but still solid. Still home.
I walked the perimeter first, checking the fence posts Mae had installed years ago. Some were loose, others rotted through, but the bones were good. Fixable. The barn stood about fifty yards from the cabin, red paint faded but the structure sound.
Inside the barn, hay dust danced in the late afternoon light.
I breathed in the smell of old summers—sweet grass, leather, the lingering scent of the horses Mae used to board.
The stalls were empty now, but I could picture them full.
Could see the examination room I'd build in the corner, the surgery suite, the recovery pens for wildlife rehab.
This wasn't just land. This was my future.
I stepped into the last stall, the one Mae had never finished. The wood was raw, unstained, but sturdy. I ran my hand along the rough boards and felt something settle in my chest.
This matters, I told myself. This is worth it.
Worth marrying a stranger. Worth weeks of pretending. Worth whatever complications came with tying my life to Eli Hayes, even temporarily.
Because this place wasn't just Mae's legacy. It was mine.
I pulled out my phone and typed before I could second-guess myself:
Can you do dinner tonight? Need to talk through details.
The response came back almost immediately: Address is 247 Mill Creek Road. Six o'clock work?
No questions. No hesitation. Just practical certainty, like he'd been expecting me to follow through.
Maybe he understood better than I did that some things were worth the risk.
ELI
I'd been cleaning for an hour.
Not because the cabin was dirty—I kept it tidy out of habit—but because Clara Chen was coming over, and for some reason that felt like it mattered.
I folded the towels on the bathroom counter.
Swept the kitchen floor. Made sure there were no empty beer bottles or dirty dishes lying around.
The place was small—one bedroom, one bathroom, a living area that flowed into the kitchen—but it was mine.
Had been for three years, ever since I'd bought it with my severance pay and the need to disappear.
At five-thirty, I started dinner. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, because it was simple and I didn't want to mess it up. Because something about Clara had made me want to feed her, take care of her, make sure she was warm and safe.
While the soup heated, I went to the closet and pulled down the box I'd been avoiding for months. Mae's things—the stuff she'd left behind, the items her lawyer had asked me to hold onto until Clara came back.
I'd forgotten about the flannel shirt until I saw it folded at the bottom of the box. Forest green, soft from years of wear, with FFA embroidered on the pocket. It had probably belonged to Clara when she was in high school.
I shook it out, checked for holes or stains. Found none. Smelled faintly of lavender and cotton. Like it remembered her.
At six-fifteen, I heard truck tires on gravel.
CLARA
Eli's cabin was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined.
It sat in a clearing surrounded by pine trees, with a covered porch and windows that glowed warm yellow in the gathering dusk. Practical. Sturdy. The kind of place that could weather any storm.
But it was also beautiful in a quiet way that surprised me.
I knocked, and he opened the door before I could second-guess myself.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
He stepped aside and took my coat as I entered. "Come in."
I brushed past him in the doorway, caught the smell of soap and pine and something heavier underneath. Sweat. Smoke. Him.
His shirt clung to his arms. Clean flannel stretched across shoulders that looked like they could carry anything. Fresh soap. Heat underneath.
The inside was warm, neat, and surprisingly comfortable.
A leather couch faced a stone fireplace.
Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with what looked like technical manuals and a few paperbacks.
The kitchen was small but well-organized, with copper pots hanging from hooks and herbs growing in mason jars on the windowsill.
It felt like a home, not just a place to sleep.
"Dinner's ready," Eli said. "Nothing fancy."
"I'm not fancy either."
Since it was winter and my boots were damp from the snow, I kicked them off by the door, immediately feeling smaller in my stocking feet. Eli's gaze dropped to my feet. Not long. Just enough to make me aware of every inch of skin I hadn't bothered to hide.
"Hungry?" he asked, voice rougher than before.
"Starving."
He'd set the small kitchen table for two, with actual plates and cloth napkins. The soup steamed in ceramic bowls, and the grilled cheese was cut diagonally, crispy and golden.
"This looks amazing," I said, and meant it.
"Just soup and a grilled cheese."
"Just soup and a grilled cheese that someone made for me." I sat down across from him. "When's the last time someone cooked for you?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Been a while."
I took a bite of the sandwich. Perfect—buttery bread, melted cheese, the kind of comfort food that made you forget your problems for a few minutes.
"This is really good," I said.
"Thanks."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Eli got up and returned with something folded in his hands.
"Mae had me keep some things for you," he said, holding out a green flannel shirt. "This was in the box."
I recognized it immediately. My old FFA shirt from high school, the one I'd worn to every livestock show and barn cleaning. I'd wondered where it had gone.
"How did Mae have this?"
"She said to give it to you when you came back for good." He paused. "Guess she knew you would eventually."
I took the shirt, ran my fingers over the soft fabric. It still smelled faintly like the barn, like the girl I used to be before life got complicated.
"You can keep it," I said. "I don't really—"
"It's yours now," he said, and something in his voice made me look up. His gray eyes were serious, almost intense. "Everything that was Mae's is yours now."
The way he said it made my breath catch. Like he wasn't just talking about the shirt.
I slipped it on over my sweater, and it fit perfectly. Soft and worn and familiar, like coming home.
"Why did you really say yes?" I asked. "To marrying me."
His jaw worked. "Does it matter?"
"Yes."
A long beat. The fire crackled. Then: “I told you that Mae saved my sister. Pulled her out of Mill Creek when she was ten."
"That's it?"
He didn't answer. Just stared into his coffee like it held secrets he wasn't ready to share.
"What happened?" I pressed.
"To who?"
"To you. To make you willing to marry a stranger."
Something shuttered completely in his expression. "That's not part of the deal."
"Okay," I said. "You said purpose at the diner. I can give you that."
"Can you?"
"I'm good at finding things for people to do. Ask anyone."
That almost-smile tugged at his mouth. "What if I'm not good at taking orders?"
"Then we'll figure something else out."
After dinner, I helped him clean up, moving around his kitchen like we'd done this a hundred times before. When he washed, I dried. When I reached for a high cabinet, he was there to open it for me.
It felt domestic in a way that made my chest tight.
"You can stay if you want," he said when the last dish was put away. "Talk through details. Plans."
I looked toward the hallway, toward what had to be his bedroom. "Where would I sleep?"
"Couch is comfortable."
I curled up on the leather couch, pulling my legs under me. Eli sat on the other end, careful to keep space between us, but I could feel the heat from his body anyway. Could smell that mix of soap and something darker that clung to his skin.
"So," I said. "What happens next?"
"We get the license tomorrow. Find someone to perform the ceremony."
"That's it?"
"That's the legal part." He looked at me, and his eyes lingered on the flannel shirt. On the way it hung loose over my curves. His jaw flexed, like he'd just remembered this was supposed to be pretend. "What else did you have in mind?"
I didn't know. But sitting here in his warm cabin, wearing my old shirt that Mae had saved for me, watching the firelight play across his features, it felt like there should be more.
Like we were crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
"Clara," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"You sure about this?"
I looked around his cabin—at the books on the shelves, the careful way he'd arranged everything, the photo turned face-down on the refrigerator that I was pretending not to notice.
"I'm sure," I said.
He stood then, walked toward his bedroom. Stopped in the doorway and looked back at me.
"There's a blanket in that chest if you get cold," he said.
I curled tighter in my old shirt. His eyes flicked to me once more before he disappeared into his room.
He didn't close the door. The flannel smelled like old hay and pine. Like him. And I didn't sleep.