EPILOGUE
Frankie
Six Months Later…
The air up on the mountain was different than in town. It was thinner, sharper, and smelled like the kind of freedom I hadn’t known existed until I’d kissed Max Wilder in the middle of a hardware store one fateful day.
I stood on the wraparound porch of Max’s house — our house, he kept correcting me — thinking about how my life had changed so suddenly.
I’d thought I’d be crushing on the mountain man until my hair was gray.
Instead, I was sleeping in his bed every night, experiencing more joy than I’d ever thought possible.
The heavy thud of an axe echoed from the side of the house. I moved along the walkway, following the sound until I spotted him.
Max was there, shirtless in the crisp autumn air, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat despite the chill. He swung the axe with a brutal, rhythmic grace, his back muscles bunching and rippling with every strike.
He was a force of nature, and he was all mine.
When he heard me, he buried the axe head in the chopping block and turned around. His dark eyes were hooded, his gaze raking over me with that familiar, predatory heat that made my body instantly ready for him.
“You’re wearing my shirt. And I’m pretty sure you’re not wearing anything under it,” he noted
“I thought it would be more... efficient,” I said. “Saving time with the undressing part and all.”
Max didn’t laugh. He never did when it came to wanting me. He just crossed the grass in three long, heavy strides, marched up the steps and pushed me against the cabin wall. He reached out, his hand hooking into the collar of the shirt and hauling me flush against his sweaty, heated chest.
“Max, you’re all dirty,” I said, although my hands were already busy finding the button of his work pants.
“I’m a mountain man, Frankie. Dirt comes with the territory. And right now, the only territory I care about is what’s between your legs.”
His hand dove down to find the soaking heat I’d become just watching him work.
“God, you’re so wet for me,” he growled, his fingers finding my center and sliding in deep. “Every time I look at you, you’re ready.”
“It’s your fault,” I gasped, my head falling back as his thumb found my clit and began a relentless grind. “You look like that... and you touch me like this... I don’t stand a chance.”
“You don’t need a chance,” he rasped.
He unfastened his pants and pulled his cock free. He didn’t play. He didn’t tease. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into my curves, and lifted me high. I gasped as he drove into me in one deep thrust.
“Whose are you, Frankie?” he grunted, his pace becoming a brutal, rhythmic pounding. His hand slid up to wrap lightly around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. “Tell me. Whose pussy is this? Whose body have I been waking up to every morning?”
“Yours,” I screamed into the open mountain air. “My pussy is yours. My body is yours. I’m yours, Max. Always.”
“Damn right you are.” His grip tightened fractionally. “Mine to touch. Mine to fuck.”
And every thrust was a claim, a promise to me. That I was his, and he was mine.
When I finally shattered, my climax left me sobbing his name. Max followed me over the edge a second later, his body shuddering as he poured himself into me, his roar echoing through the pines.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed there, holding me against the house, his heart beating fast and hard against mine.
“You know,” I said when I could finally breathe again, “normal people have sex in beds.”
“We’re not normal people.” He kissed me, fast and hard. “And I like you right here. Against my house. On my mountain. Mine.”
“So possessive,” I teased, though my heart was doing that slow, heavy thud it always did when he got like this.
“Only about you.” He finally lowered me to my feet, though his hands stayed on my hips, keeping me steady. “Come on. I’ll feed you breakfast before I take you back to bed and do that all over again.”
I laughed, following him inside, my legs still shaky. “Is this what my life is now? Sex and breakfast on repeat?”
“Pretty much.” He pulled me into the kitchen, settling me on the counter while he moved to the stove. “Unless you want to go back to town. Back to the hardware store.”
I’d quit my job months ago. Max had made it clear he wanted me here, with him. My boss had hired someone new within a week and I’d packed up my small apartment without a second thought.
“Are you kidding?” I watched him crack eggs into a pan, still shirtless, still magnificent. “And miss this view? Not a chance.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a rare smile crossing his face. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go, Frankie. Ever.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He turned the heat off under the eggs and walked back to me, settling between my thighs. “You saved me, you know that?”
“I’m pretty sure you saved me first,” I said softly. “I was stuck behind that counter, dreaming about a life I thought I’d never have. And then you walked in every Thursday like clockwork, and I started dreaming about you instead.”
“I knew the first time I saw you,” he said, his hands framing my face. “I knew you were going to change everything.” He kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. “Marry me, Frankie.”
I pulled back, my eyes wide. “What?”
“Marry me.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t have a ring yet. I was going to wait, do it properly, but I can’t. I need you to know that this isn’t temporary. This isn’t just living together. I want you as my wife.”
My throat went tight. “Max—”
“I love you,” he said. “I want to marry you. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. So, what do you say? Will you marry the grumpy mountain man?”
Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and fast. “Yes,” I choked out. “Yes, you possessive, perfect man. I’ll marry you.”
Six months ago, I’d been a hardware store clerk with a crush on a customer. Now I was engaged to that man, living on his mountain, building a life I’d never dared to dream of.
And it all started with one impulsive kiss and a fake wedding date.
Best idea my crazy self had ever had.