Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
DESTINY
Mason Walsh is nothing like I expected. When I signed up for Sealed, Signed, Delivered, I pictured some desperate loner who couldn't get a date. Not this tall drink of water with penetrating blue eyes that see straight through my lies.
He leads me upstairs to the guest room, carrying my suitcase like it weighs nothing. His cabin is gorgeous with exposed beams and windows that frame the snow-capped mountains like living artwork. It's the perfect place to hide and heal.
"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, setting my luggage down. "Towels in the cabinet under the sink."
"Thank you." I run my fingers along the handmade quilt covering the bed. "This is beautiful."
"My grandmother made it." His voice softens slightly. "She made one for each of us when we graduated high school."
I smile, filing away this tiny glimpse beneath his gruff exterior. "So you grew up here in Whisper Vale?"
"Born and raised." He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You said you're from San Diego?"
"Yes, but I've always loved the mountains." Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
He nods, and I can feel his therapist brain analyzing my every word. That penetrating gaze lands on my bruised eye again, and I resist the urge to cover it with my hand.
"I don't mean to pry, but—”
"Then don't," I say, more sharply than intended.
Something flashes across his face, looks like more concern than anger. That almost breaks me. I'm not used to concern without strings attached.
"Right. Well, I've got appointments this afternoon. Make yourself at home." He steps back into the hallway. "We can figure out... whatever this is... when I get back."
After he leaves, I sink onto the bed, finally letting out the breath I've been holding since I knocked on his door. The fake smile I've perfected over the last year slips from my face like a mask.
I made it. I actually made it.
Three months ago, Sealed, Signed, Delivered seemed like a ridiculous suggestion from my roommate Tasha.
"Girl, you need to get out of this city," she'd said, scrolling through the website on her phone. "Greg knows too many people here. You'll never feel safe."
"So your solution is a mail-order marriage?" I'd laughed, but it wasn't really funny. Nothing had been funny since Greg, my principal and boyfriend of two years, showed his true colors.
The first time he grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise, he cried afterward, promising it would never happen again. I believed him because I wanted to. Because I'd invested two years in our relationship. Because I loved my job teaching second grade at his school, and the kids loved me.
The second time, he threatened my career if I told anyone.
The third time landed me in the emergency room with a sprained wrist and the realization that I needed to disappear.
I touch my eye gingerly. This isn't from Greg, it's from his friend, the private investigator he hired to track me down after I fled San Diego last week. I thought I'd covered my tracks, but I underestimated Greg's resources and obsession.
Three states and two rental cars later, I ended up in Reno. That's when I remembered the crazy matchmaking service Tasha had set up for me months ago. I'd forgotten all about it until their "Your Match Is Waiting!" email arrived.
Mason Walsh. Whisper Vale, Nevada. Small mountain town, middle of nowhere. Perfect.
I browse through my phone, finding the profile his sister created.
Therapist specializing in trauma. Former high school teacher.
Quiet, dependable, respected in the community.
All good things, but what sold me was the location, remote enough to disappear, but with enough civilization that I could eventually find work.
I unpack my meager belongings, carefully hanging my clothes in the closet like I'm planning to stay. Because I am. I have nowhere else to go, and despite his initial reluctance, Mason Walsh seems like a decent man. Maybe even a safe one.
The thought of safety brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I brush them away quickly. Crying never fixed anything.
Instead, I do what I always do when anxiety threatens to overwhelm me, I clean. By the time I hear Mason's truck rumbling up the driveway three hours later, I've scrubbed his kitchen to a shine, organized his spice rack alphabetically, and started a pot of homemade chicken soup.
"What's all this?" he asks, stamping snow from his boots in the entryway.
"Just a thank you for letting me stay." I ladle soup into a bowl. "Hope you're hungry."
He eyes the kitchen like he's not sure what happened to his original one. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know. But cooking calms me." I slide the bowl across the counter toward him. "Eat while it's hot."
To my surprise, he doesn't argue. He pulls up a stool and takes a spoonful, his eyebrows rising in appreciation.
"This is really good."
"Thanks. My grandma's recipe." I smile, watching him eat. There's something intensely satisfying about feeding a man who clearly doesn't take proper care of himself. His fridge had contained nothing but condiments and leftover takeout when I arrived.
"So," he says between bites, "are we going to talk about what's really going on here?"
My stomach clenches. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that black eye isn't from falling off a ladder." He sets his spoon down, those blue eyes gentle but unwavering. "And I'm guessing your sudden interest in marrying a stranger isn't a whim."
I busy myself wiping down an already clean countertop. "I told you why I'm here."
"You told me what you wanted me to hear." His voice lacks accusation, just simple certainty.
"Isn't that what everyone does when they first meet someone?" I challenge, turning to face him. "Present their best selves?"
"Is this your best self? Running from something, or someone, with a bruised face and a suitcase of hastily packed clothes?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're scared. I know you're trying very hard to appear like you're not." He pushes his empty bowl away. "And I know that whatever you're running from, it followed you here."
My blood turns to ice. "What do you mean?"
"A black SUV with California plates has driven past my cabin three times since you arrived." He says it calmly, but his eyes have hardened. "Should I be concerned?"
My legs go weak, and I sink onto a stool. "I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd find me here."
Mason's expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens. "Who's 'he'?"
"My ex." The words taste bitter. "He's... possessive. And connected. I thought I was careful, but..."
"But he found you anyway." Mason finishes my thought.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. This is it. He'll tell me to leave now, to take my problems elsewhere. Why wouldn't he? I've brought danger to his doorstep.
Instead, he stands and walks to a cabinet near the refrigerator. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"I think we need to start over." He pours a finger of amber liquid into each glass and slides one toward me. "I'm Mason Walsh. I help people work through trauma for a living. And I think you need somewhere safe to stay a hell of a lot more than I need to be alone this Christmas."
Relief floods through me so intensely that tears spring to my eyes. I blink them back quickly.
"Destiny Brooks," I reply, raising my glass in a small toast. "Elementary school teacher. Currently between jobs. And yes, I could really use somewhere safe."
We drink, the whiskey burning a warm path down my throat.
"So what's the plan now?" I ask.
"First, we figure out who's been circling my property." His voice has a dangerous edge that sends a shiver down my spine. Not from fear, quite the opposite. There's something incredibly appealing about this man's quiet protectiveness.
"Then what?"
Mason meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see a hint of a smile. "Then we convince everyone in town that we're madly in love and planning to get married. Should keep your ex guessing long enough for us to figure out a more permanent solution."
"You'd do that? For a complete stranger?"
His expression softens. "You're not exactly a stranger anymore, Destiny. You cleaned my kitchen and made me soup. In my family, that practically makes us engaged already."
I laugh, genuinely laugh, for what feels like the first time in months.
"So we're really doing this?" I ask, hardly daring to hope. "Pretending this match worked and we got engaged?"
"Unless you have a better plan?" Mason raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head, a strange mix of relief and anticipation bubbling in my chest. "Pretending to be engaged to a handsome mountain man therapist? I can think of worse fates."
Mason's cheeks color slightly at "handsome," and I file that reaction away for future reference. So the stoic therapist can be flustered. Interesting.
"One condition," he says, suddenly serious again. "No more lies between us. If we're going to pull this off, I need to know exactly what we're dealing with."
I take a deep breath. "Deal. But it's not a pretty story."
"Few worth telling are." He refills our glasses. "Take your time."
As the winter night settles around the cabin, I tell Mason everything, about Greg, about the escalating abuse, about my desperate flight across three states. He listens without interruption, his face growing harder with each revelation, but his eyes remain soft when they meet mine.
When I finally finish, Mason doesn't offer empty platitudes or unwanted advice. He simply reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand.
"You're safe here," he says, and somehow, I believe him. "I promise."
Something warm unfurls in my chest, something I thought Greg had killed forever. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
Either way, as I look into Mason's steady blue eyes, I know I've found exactly where I need to be this Christmas, even if it's not for the reasons I expected.