CHAPTER THREE
Thorne
She drove too slow.
I watched her sedan crawl up the mountain road in my rearview mirror, taking every pothole and washout like it might swallow her car whole.
Which, to be fair, some of them could. My truck handled the terrain like it was born for it, but Maddie’s little city car was bottoming out, its suspension groaning in a way that made me wince.
But her slow pace was a curse. It gave me too much time to think.
About the kiss.
It shouldn’t have been that good. It was supposed to be a legal formality, a press of lips to satisfy a judge and a witness. Instead, it had felt like a fuse being lit.
I could still feel the small sound she’d made—that little hitch in her throat—when I’d slid my hand into her hair.
My palm had brushed the back of her neck, her skin like silk, and for a second, the courthouse had vanished.
Wall Street, the land, the contract—it all went dark, replaced by the scent of her and the heat of her mouth.
Now, my wife was following me home, and I had no idea what happened next.
The road narrowed, pine trees closing in on both sides like a green tunnel. I’d been seeking solace on this mountain for six months, burning out the last of my corporate soul in the silence. I’d wanted peace. I’d wanted to be left until I figured out how to be a person again.
Instead, I was bringing a hurricane back to my sanctuary. A hurricane with brown eyes and a smart mouth.
Twenty more minutes of this. Twenty more minutes before we got to the cabin and had to figure out how to exist in the same space after that kiss.
I’d been thinking about kissing her since she’d stumbled into Kate’s office with that smart mouth and those curves and that complete lack of fear at my silence. Brooding, she’d called it.
And now I had.
And now I couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again.
This was exactly the kind of complication I didn’t need.
Because she was going to live in my cabin. Sleep in my bed—well, the bed I used to sleep in. I’d given her my bedroom and moved into my grandfather’s.
She was going to disrupt my damn life—all because of my grandfather.
I still didn’t know what the old man had been thinking.
Eventually, the cabin came into view through the trees—small, sturdy.
Neat and clean on the inside and outside.
I parked in front and watched her pull up beside me.
She should have looked out of place against the backdrop of wilderness, but she didn’t.
Because of her damn dress and wind swept hair.
Her brown boots and the denim jacket completed the picture. She looked just like a mountain bride.
She got out slowly, staring at the cabin.
The late afternoon light hit her just right—her hair down around her shoulders because I’d told her to leave it, the dress moving when she turned.
She tilted her head back and got that expression on her face.
The one she’d worn in my sister’s office when she’d first seen me and said, there you are.
She was greeting the cabin the same way. As if she’d been looking for it for a very long time.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed.
“Far from it.” I had already had to replace the roof and do some structural repairs. Plus, I’d put in solar power, because I liked my creature comforts. But there were still a lot of repairs and upgrades to make on the cabin.
“Thorne, it’s perfect.” She turned in a slow circle, taking in the trees, the mountain rising behind us, the creek you could hear but barely see. “This is exactly what I needed. No one asking me what my plan is.”
“My plan is survival,” I muttered, thinking how that was going to work out with her looking so damn good.
“Show me around?” She grinned at me. That same charming, flirty smile she’d given me at Kate’s office. The one that had been noticeably absent at the courthouse. She’d been nervous then.
I grabbed two of her suitcases from her trunk—she had four, plus a few boxes—and led her inside. She’d packed like she intended to stay.
She grabbed the flowers I’d given her from the front seat and followed me inside.
I stood behind her and watched her take it in. The bookshelves, the stone fireplace, the big window with the valley spread out below. Photos of me and Kate as children on the wall. Of my grandparents and parents. Family everywhere I looked.
Was that why my grandfather had insisted on the crazy clause to his will? And why did he’d known I’d do almost anything to keep the land.
Even marry a stranger.
A beautiful, curvy stranger.
“It’s cozy,” she said.
“It’s small.”
“Cozy,” she insisted. “Where’s my room?”
Right. Her room. The one I’d spent a week making right for her, which had seemed like the practical thing to do. I carried her suitcases down the long hallway and tried not to think about the fact that my bedroom was right next door to hers. A thin wall the only thing separating us.
I pushed open the door to the front bedroom—my room until three days ago, now hers—and stepped back.
She walked in.
I watched her face do the thing it kept doing—that unguarded light that she didn’t seem to know how to manage or didn’t bother trying to. She touched my grandmother’s quilt I’d put on the bed and placed the flowers I’d given her on the dresser.
“There’s a closet and the window faces east so you’ll get morning light.” I’d hung long white curtains I’d found tucked away in the back of a closet. I’d never bothered with curtains. Who was going to see me? A bear? But I knew that layer of privacy would mean something to her.
“Not that I’ll see it,” she said, grinning. “Since I don’t wake up at ungodly hours like some people probably do.”
At least Kate had been honest about that in the profile she’d created for me. I’d read Maddie’s—at least a dozen times, trying to understand why she’d agreed to this craziness. Sleeping in seemed to be one of her secret pleasures in life. “Five o’clock is not early.”
“It’s barely human.”
I almost smiled, then caught myself. “There’s only one bath, so we’ll have to share.”
“That’s fine. I’m a good roommate. I don’t hog the hot water, and I promise not to leave my girly stuff everywhere. Mostly.”
Immediately visions of girly stuff swirled through my mind. Pink lace panties, black satin bras. I felt my body respond and warned myself not to respond. My blood was heavy and a slow thrum of heat settled in my gut.
Roommate. Right. That’s what we were. Roommates who happened to be legally married.
Roommates who’d kissed like the world was ending a few hours ago. My brain went straight back to the courthouse like it had been doing the entire drive up here in a loop I couldn’t break.
Her mouth under mine. Her hands. The sounds she’d made that only I heard.
My body had been making an argument since the courthouse parking lot to kiss her again. It was getting harder to counter.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For this. For making it nice.”
I had nothing to say to that. We were close enough that I could see the freckles across her nose, could see exactly where her collarbone met the neckline of that dress.
I wanted to close the distance so badly it was a physical thing — my chest tight, my body already responding in ways that made the word arrangement feel like the stupidest thing I’d ever agreed to.
I wanted to back her against the wall, wanted my hands on those curves I’d been craving since she’d walked into Kate’s office.
I wanted to find out what sounds she’d make if I took my time instead of stopping
I stepped back.
One deliberate step. Putting distance between us before my body made the decision my brain was still arguing about.
Something moved through her eyes—not quite disappointment, not quite relief.
“I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” I said, needing to move, needing to do something with my hands that didn’t involve pulling her close to see if I just imagined how good she’d tasted.
“I can help.”
“I’ve got it.”
I escaped before she could argue. I knew instinctively she was not someone who asked for help or took it when it was offered.
It took me three trips to get everything inside. She was still wearing that dress, and her hair was still down.
Because I’d told her to leave it that way.
Because I was an idiot.
“I’m starving,” she announced, exploring the kitchen. “Please tell me you have food.”
“I went shopping yesterday.” I opened the fridge. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got... options.”
She peered around me, and I became very aware of how close she was. Close enough to smell the shampoo she used. Close enough to hear her small intake of breath as she leaned against my back.
“You bought out the store,” she said, laughing. “Thorne, there’s like six different kinds of cheese in here.”
“I didn’t know which one you preferred.”
“So you got all of them?”
“It seemed logical.”
She looked up at me, still laughing, and we were too close. Way too close. I stepped back. Again. “I can make dinner. If you want to settle in.”
“Or I could help. What are you making?”
“Steak.”
“Of course, because you’re a meat and potatoes kind of man.” She bumped her hip against mine—a playful, sassy move that nearly made me groan out loud. “Okay, mountain man. Show me what you’ve got.”
Cooking with her was a special kind of torture.
The kitchen was designed for one person—one very lonely person.
With the two of us, it was a constant dance of near-misses.
She moved with a confidence that surprised me, her hips swaying as she chopped vegetables.
I stayed by the stove, my eyes fixed on the searing meat, but I was aware of her every move.
I’d invited a damn ray of sunshine into my life.
She told me about her friend who’d texted her six times to make sure she hadn’t been murdered, about her mother who thought she was working on a ranch and kept sending her articles about agricultural careers.
We ate at the small table, and it should have been awkward. First meal as a married couple. Strangers playing house.
But it didn’t feel like that. And that was the scariest part.
She’d changed nothing about dinner except it felt different from every meal I’d eaten alone in this kitchen for six months. Fuller. Like the silence had texture now instead of just weight.
It didn’t take us long to put the food on the table—and become aware that we were alone in a cabin.
On our wedding night.
“So,” she said, poking at her salad. “This is weird, right? Our wedding night, but... not.”
“It’s our wedding night,” I said, my voice dropping. I watched her tongue dart out to catch a drop of dressing on her lip. My grip on my fork tightened. “Just not the kind people write songs about.”
“Right. Because we’re not... doing the thing.”
“We’re not,” I confirmed, though every cell in my body was screaming for me to change my mind.
“Good. Great. Same page.” She bit her lip—a nervous habit that made me want to reach across the table and thumb her mouth open.
“Same page,” I lied.
We shared a few more tidbits of conversation and then dinner was done. She finished her wine and stood up, gathering up the dishes. I stopped her with a hand on her arms. “I’ve got them.”
“Right.” She looked around as if trying to come up with a reason to stay. She couldn’t find one and I couldn’t bring myself to give her one. Or two or hell, a half dozen.
“I should probably get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” Her smile this time was a very dull version of the ones she had been giving me.
The longest. “Yes, it has.”
“Okay then. Good night, Thorne.”
“Good night.” She headed down the hallway, still in that dress, her hair a dark cascade down her back. “Maddie.”
She stopped, turned. “Yeah?”
I wanted to tell her she was beautiful. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t felt this alive in years.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said instead. It was the truest thing I could manage.
Her expression softened. “Thanks, mountain man.”
Then she was gone and I was alone in the kitchen on my wedding night.