Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
JUDITH
The moment I step outside The Velvet Antler, I gulp the crisp mountain air like I've been underwater.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I walk briskly toward my rental car, heels clicking purposefully on the icy sidewalk.
I wait until I'm safely inside the vehicle, doors locked, before I allow myself to process what just happened.
Dario Wallace is nothing like what I expected.
I pull out the contract, scanning the meticulous terms again. The man who wrote this is precise, demanding, and exacting. Exactly what I'd anticipated from someone desperate enough to advertise for a temporary wife.
What I hadn't expected was six foot four inches of raw masculinity wrapped in flannel and denim, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look straight through my carefully constructed facade.
I hadn't expected hands that could probably snap me in half but moved with surprising grace.
I certainly hadn't expected the immediate, visceral pull low in my belly when he said "Sit" in that deep voice that expected immediate compliance.
"Get a grip, Judy," I mutter, starting the car. "This is business, not pleasure."
But pleasure had definitely made an appearance at that table, uninvited and unwelcome. The last thing I need is complications, and Dario Wallace, mountain man with control issues, is the definition of complicated.
I drive carefully through the quaint main street of Crimson Hollow, noting the cheerful Christmas decorations already appearing in shop windows despite it being only mid-November.
The town seems plucked from a holiday movie set, complete with twinkling lights and fresh snow dusting the sidewalks.
It couldn't be more different from the concrete jungle I'm trying to escape.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the small inn where I've booked a room for the week. As I check in, the elderly proprietor beams at me.
"First time in Crimson Hollow, dear?"
"Is it that obvious?" I smile, accepting the old-fashioned metal key she offers.
"We don't get many city folk this time of year." She leans forward conspiratorially. "What brings you to our little slice of heaven?"
I hesitate, the practiced lie forming automatically. "Just looking for some peace and quiet to finish a project."
It's not entirely untrue. I am here to finish something—specifically, to put an end to the disaster my life has become in the past month.
In my room, I kick off my heels and collapse onto the bed, staring at the pine-beamed ceiling. How did Judith Mars, valedictorian, Ivy League graduate, rising PR executive, end up considering a marriage of convenience to a stranger in the middle of nowhere?
The answer is simple, Marc Alexander III, heir to the Alexander Media empire and my former fiancé.
My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend, Sierra.
Sierra: Did you meet Mountain Man? Still alive? Details!
I type back.
Me: Very much alive. Very much a mountain man. Built like a redwood and twice as rigid.
Her reply is immediate.
Sierra: But is he hot?
I laugh despite myself.
Me: Irrelevant.
Sierra: So that's a yes. TAKE PICTURES.
Me: I'm not marrying him for his looks.
Sierra: No, you're marrying him to escape your psycho ex and his daddy's lawyers. But eye candy doesn't hurt.
Sierra isn't wrong. Four weeks ago, I was planning my dream wedding to Marc.
Then I discovered he'd been systematically embezzling from our joint business account to cover gambling debts.
When I confronted him, threatening to go to his father with evidence, his charm evaporated. The threats began immediately.
"Nobody will believe you over me," he'd said, his handsome face twisted with rage. "You're nothing but an opportunistic gold digger. I'll make sure everyone knows it."
I might have weathered the character assassination if that's all it was.
But Marc has resources, connections, and most importantly, a prenuptial agreement I'd signed that included a morality clause.
If I broke the engagement for any reason besides his infidelity, I'd be liable for a million-dollar penalty.
A penalty his father's lawyers were already preparing to enforce.
Unless I marry someone else first.
The loophole had been Sierra's discovery. The contract specifically becomes void if either party marries someone else before the specified wedding date. Marc father had insisted on the contract, he probably added the clause assuming it would be an out for them should they decide someone was ‘better for their company’s image’.
I bet they never even considered that I'd find a loophole nor use it to my benefit.
Our wedding was scheduled for December 27th. If I can stay married to someone else until December 26th, the contract becomes null and void. All I need is a husband willing to sign an ironclad NDA and walk away when it's over.
Enter Dario Wallace, conveniently seeking a temporary wife until precisely the date I need.
I spread his contract on the bed alongside my own, comparing terms. His is impressive in its thoroughness, detailing everything from financial arrangements to privacy expectations. The house rules section makes me smile despite myself. Who puts house rules in a marriage contract?
A man accustomed to control, that's who. A man who exudes dominance from every pore. A man whose penetrating gaze saw more than I wanted to reveal across that table.
I pull out my laptop and begin drafting a counter-proposal. If we're doing this, we're doing it on terms that protect us both. By midnight, I've completed my revisions, added my own requirements, and scheduled a background check on Dario Wallace through a private investigator friend.
Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by dreams of ice-blue eyes and commanding hands.
Morning brings confirmation that Dario Wallace is exactly who he claims to be.
Grandson of the late Edwin Wallace, whose substantial mountain property is the subject of a contested will.
Owner of a successful custom furniture business specializing in hand-crafted pieces that sell for small fortunes in upscale Vancouver galleries.
No criminal record. No marriages. No apparent reason not to trust him beyond the fact that he's a virtual stranger who lives in isolation on a mountain.
I shower, dress carefully in jeans, a soft sweater, and practical boots—still stylish but less obviously "city"—and prepare to call the mountain man.
He answers on the second ring.
"Wallace."
"Good morning, Mr. Wallace. It's Judith Mars."
"Have you made your decision?" Direct, as expected.
"I'm prepared to accept your proposal, with some modifications." I keep my voice equally businesslike.
A pause. "What modifications?"
"Nothing that changes the essential agreement. Just additional protections for both parties. I've emailed them to you."
"I'll review them."
"If they're acceptable, I'd like to proceed quickly. My situation is time-sensitive as well."
Another pause, longer this time. "Care to share what that situation is?"
"Not particularly."
A sound that might almost be a chuckle. "Fair enough. How quickly were you thinking?"
"I can be ready to move in tomorrow if the paperwork is finished today."
"Tomorrow." He seems to consider. "That's acceptable. I'll contact Silas. Come to the courthouse at noon. Bring identification and whatever you need for the next month."
"I'll be there."
"And Judith?"
"Yes?"
"Pack practical clothes. The mountain doesn't care about fashion."
I bite back a sharp retort about assumptions. "I'm not as helpless as you seem to think, Mr. Wallace."
"We'll see." The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, torn between irritation and amusement. The man certainly has confidence. We'll see indeed.
I spend the day gathering supplies. Winter clothing, toiletries, enough books to survive isolation, and my work laptop. Whatever happens, I still have my remote PR job to maintain. Sierra calls as I'm packing.
"Are you really doing this?" she asks, concern evident in her voice.
"I don't have a choice. Marc's father has already filed the initial paperwork. If I don't have proof of marriage by the end of the week, they'll start proceedings."
"I know." She sighs. "I just wish there was another way. What if this mountain guy is dangerous?"
"The background check was clean. And he's too concerned about his property to risk legal trouble." I fold a thick sweater. "Besides, it's only for a month."
"A lot can happen in a month, Jude."
"I'll be fine. I've handled worse than a grumpy furniture maker with control issues."
"Just promise you'll stay in touch. Daily check-ins or I'm calling in the cavalry."
"Promise."
After we hang up, I stare at my neatly packed suitcases. The plan does seem insane, but the alternative—financial ruin and a destroyed reputation—is worse.
The courthouse in Crimson Hollow is a small, tidy building of red brick and white columns.
I arrive at precisely noon the following day, wheeling one suitcase, with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder.
Dario waits at the top of the steps, wearing the same intense expression as two days ago but freshly shaved, his dark hair combed back neatly.
He wears a charcoal button-down that stretches across broad shoulders, and dark jeans.
He looks less like a mountain hermit and more like a GQ model playing one in a fashion spread.
"You're punctual." He says it like he's noting a surprising virtue.
"I value other people's time as much as my own."
He nods once, accepting this. "Silas is inside with the paperwork. Did you bring ID?"
I pat my handbag. "Everything required."
"Good." He turns toward the door, then pauses, looking back at my suitcase. Without comment, he reaches for the handle. I relinquish it, oddly touched by the gesture despite its practicality.
Inside, Silas McCrae waits with a stack of papers and a sympathetic smile. "Ms. Mars, good to officially meet you."