Chapter 2 #2
"Likewise." I shake his offered hand. "Thank you for expediting this."
"Dario explained the urgency." His eyes flicker with curiosity but remain professionally neutral. "I've prepared everything as requested. Both your contract modifications and the marriage license are ready."
We settle at a small conference table, reviewing documents with meticulous care. Dario's signature is bold and sharp, like the man himself. Mine flows more smoothly alongside his. When we finish, Silas collects the papers.
"The judge will see you in ten minutes. This is a civil ceremony only, so it will be brief."
Dario turns to me, something unreadable in his expression. "Last chance to back out."
"I could say the same to you." I meet his gaze steadily.
"I never back out once I've committed."
Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear, but... anticipation.
The ceremony is indeed brief. Judge Hamilton, a stern-faced woman in her sixties, performs the legal minimum with efficient precision.
When she pronounces us "legally married according to the laws of British Columbia," I feel a surreal disconnect.
I'm now Mrs. Wallace, at least on paper.
I slip the simple gold band Dario provided onto my finger. It feels strange. Temporary.
Outside, Silas shakes our hands and offers congratulations that sound almost sincere. "I've filed everything electronically. You'll have official copies by week's end."
"Thank you," I say.
Dario merely nods, already scanning the street. "My truck is this way."
I follow him to a massive black pickup that's surprisingly clean given the muddy roads. He loads my suitcase into the back with ease, then opens the passenger door. Again, the unexpected courtesy.
"It's about forty minutes to the cabin," he says as we pull away from the courthouse. "Longer if the weather turns."
I glance at the sky, noting the heavy clouds gathering over the mountain peaks. "Will it snow?"
"Probably." He handles the truck with the same confidence he seems to approach everything. "Not a problem for the truck, but we should make good time just in case."
We drive in silence for several minutes, the town falling away behind us as we climb into increasingly wild terrain. The paved road eventually gives way to gravel, then to what barely qualifies as a road at all.
"So," I venture, "furniture making. How did you get into that?"
He glances my way, seemingly surprised by the attempt at conversation. "Family tradition. My grandfather taught my father, my father taught me."
"And you enjoy it?"
"I wouldn't do it otherwise."
"What kind of pieces do you make?"
"Custom work mostly. Tables, bed frames, cabinets. Anything that needs to last generations."
"Like land ownership."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Exactly like that."
"Tell me about the property," I say, genuinely curious. "It must be special to go through all this trouble."
For the first time, animation enters his voice.
"Two hundred acres of untouched wilderness.
Old growth forest, three natural springs, wildlife most people only see in nature documentaries.
My grandfather purchased the original forty acres during the Depression for almost nothing.
My father expanded it, and I added the final piece five years ago. "
"And the county wants it?"
"They call it 'land banking for future development,'" he says with disgust. "I call it theft."
"Hence the marriage of convenience."
"Hence the marriage."
We lapse into silence again as the truck climbs higher. The road narrows further, winding through dense pine forest. Snow begins to fall, fat flakes that quickly accumulate on the windshield before the wipers sweep them away.
"Will we make it before it gets bad?" I ask, eyeing the increasingly heavy snowfall.
"We'll make it." The certainty in his voice is somehow reassuring.
Twenty minutes later, the truck rounds a final bend and the trees part to reveal a clearing.
In the center stands what can only be described as a modern cabin fortress.
Massive logs form the structure, but floor-to-ceiling windows and sleek architectural lines give it a contemporary feel.
A wraparound porch encircles the ground floor, and what appears to be a rooftop deck crowns the second story.
"That's your cabin?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
"What were you expecting? A shack with an outhouse?" Amusement colors his tone.
"Something less... impressive."
He parks beside the cabin, killing the engine. "I may live on a mountain, but I'm not a savage."
"I never said you were." I unbuckle my seatbelt, studying my home for the next month with growing curiosity. "It's beautiful."
"It's functional." But I catch the hint of pride in his voice. "We should get inside. Storm's picking up."
The interior of the cabin is even more surprising than the exterior.
Soaring ceilings with exposed beams. A wall of windows showcasing the dramatic mountain vista.
Polished concrete floors softened by luxurious rugs.
Every piece of furniture appears handcrafted, each a work of art in wood and metal.
The space is immaculate, organized with precision that borders on obsessive.
"You built all this?" I ask, turning slowly to take it all in.
"The structure was here. I renovated everything else." He moves past me, hanging his coat on a hook by the door. "Your room is upstairs, first door on the right. Bathroom is connected. Kitchen's through there. I work in the shop out back most days."
I nod, trying to reconcile this stunning home with my preconceived notions of a mountain hermit's dwelling. "It's not what I expected."
"You'll find I'm full of surprises, Mrs. Wallace." The way he says the name, slightly mocking, reminds me of our strange situation.
"As am I, Mr. Wallace." I mirror his tone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get settled."
He gestures toward the stairs. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."
The implied command raises my hackles, but I simply smile. "I'm never late."
I climb the stairs with my suitcase, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. At the top, I pause to look back down. He stands exactly where I left him, watching me with that unreadable expression.
"Welcome home," he says, and something in his tone makes it sound like both a welcome and a warning.
I push open the door to my room and step inside, closing it firmly behind me. Only then do I allow myself a moment of panic. What have I gotten myself into? This man, this place, this arrangement—it's all so much more intense than I anticipated.
But as I look around the beautifully appointed room with its king-size bed and panoramic views, I remind myself that it's only for a month. Four weeks of playing wife to a man who clearly values his space and privacy as much as I value mine. We're both using this marriage for our own purposes.
What could possibly go wrong?
Outside, the storm intensifies, snow swirling against the windows like a warning. I'm trapped on a mountain with my new husband, a virtual stranger whose very presence makes my pulse quicken despite my best intentions.
Just business, I remind myself firmly. This is just business.
So why does it already feel like something more?