Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
JARED
I sit in my truck for a moment, gathering myself. Sharing my space with someone for two weeks. Acting like a husband. It goes against every instinct I've cultivated since leaving the wildland firefighting service three years ago.
The cabin door opens before I can knock. Jennifer stands there in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair pulled up in a messy bun, coffee mug in hand.
"You're early," she says, but she's smiling.
"Force of habit."
"Come in. I'm almost ready. Just finishing my coffee."
Ridge's cabin is small but comfortable. One bedroom, an open living area with a kitchen, and a small loft.
Jennifer has clearly made herself at home.
Sketchbooks and colored pencils cover the coffee table.
A laptop sits open on the kitchen counter next to what looks like a drawing tablet.
The walls are now decorated with colorful sketches taped up haphazardly.
"Did you do these?" I ask, examining a detailed drawing of the mountain view from Ridge's front porch.
"Yeah. I've been trying to get back into traditional media. Computers are great for client work, but sometimes you need to feel the pencil on paper, you know?"
I don't know, but I nod anyway. The drawing captures something essential about the mountains that photographs often miss. The way the light hits the peaks. The texture of the pine forests. She's talented.
"These are good." I'm not one for unnecessary compliments, but credit where it's due.
"Thanks." She seems genuinely pleased. "Ready to help me pack? I travel light, I promise."
Light is relative. Three large suitcases, two boxes of art supplies, computer equipment, and what she describes as "absolute necessities" that turn out to be string lights, throw pillows, and a collection of scented candles.
"Are you moving in or redecorating?" I ask as I load the last box into my truck.
"Both. If we're going to convince your aunt we're married, your place needs a woman's touch." She holds up a fuzzy blanket. "No one will believe I've lived there a year if it still looks like a mountain man bachelor pad."
She has a point. I grunt in acknowledgment and help her into the passenger seat of my truck. It's a big step up for someone her height, and I find myself with my hands on her waist, lifting her slightly. The contact is brief but leaves my palms tingling.
"My hero," she says with a teasing grin. "Saving me from the perilous climb into the monster truck."
"It's a standard pickup."
"It's a mountain on wheels and you know it." She buckles her seatbelt. "Not all of us are built like redwoods, Mountain Man."
The drive to my cabin is filled with her commentary on everything from the scenery to my driving. I should find it annoying. Instead, I'm fighting a smile by the time we reach my property.
Unloading takes less time than loading. I carry her bags to the master bedroom while she directs the placement of boxes in what will be her temporary office.
The bedroom feels different with her things in it.
Her clothes hanging beside mine in the closet.
Her toiletries spread across the bathroom counter.
Her scent, something citrusy and warm, lingering in the air.
"Earth to Jared." She waves a hand in front of my face. "I asked if you wanted coffee."
"Sorry. Yes." I follow her to the kitchen, watching as she navigates the space like she belongs there.
"So," she says as the coffee brews. "Tell me more about Aunt Mildred. What should I know to convince her I'm madly in love with her nephew?"
I lean against the counter. "She's ninety two but sharp as ever. Grew up during the Depression. Values family, hard work, and honesty."
"The honesty part might be a problem, considering we're lying about being married."
"Small details." I accept the mug she offers. "She's old fashioned. Believes men should provide and protect. Women should be respected and cherished."
"And what do you believe?"
The question catches me off guard. "About marriage?"
"About relationships. Women. All of it." She hops up to sit on the counter, legs dangling, looking at me with genuine curiosity.
I consider the question. "I believe in respect. Communication. Space."
"Space," she repeats. "That tracks for a man who lives alone on a mountain."
"I like my solitude."
"But you didn't always, right? Ridge mentioned you were a hotshot firefighter. That's all about teamwork."
The mention of my former career tightens something in my chest. "That was different. Professional."
"No personal connections with your crew? After facing life and death situations together?"
Images flash through my mind. Jake's stupid jokes during fourteen hour shifts. Marco's terrible coffee that we drank anyway. Sarah's quiet competence in the chaos. The way we moved like a single organism when the fire closed in.
"Some connections," I admit. "But that life is over."
She studies me over her coffee mug. "Because of the accident?"
My hand automatically touches the scar on my face. "Ridge talks too much."
"He worries about you. Said you were one of the best until a burning tree nearly killed you."
"Ridge exaggerates."
"The scar suggests otherwise."
I turn away, uncomfortable with her perceptiveness. "We should talk about our story. Get our facts straight before Aunt Mildred arrives."
Jennifer allows the change of subject, but I feel her eyes on me, seeing more than I want her to.
"What's my favorite color?" she asks. "As your loving wife, you should know this."
"Blue?" I guess.
"Green, actually. Emerald green." She smiles. "Your favorite food?"
"Steak. Medium rare."
"Favorite season?"
"Fall."
"Boxers or briefs?"
I choke on my coffee. "That's not something Aunt Mildred will ask."
Her laugh fills the kitchen. "You never know. She might be a very thorough interrogator."
We spend the afternoon quizzing each other.
I learn that Jennifer takes her coffee with too much sugar, hates mornings but loves sunrise if she happens to be awake for it, and is allergic to strawberries.
She discovers I read history books for pleasure, can name every peak in a fifty mile radius, and secretly enjoy cooking complex meals when I have the time.
"You're full of surprises, Mountain Man," she says as I prepare dinner. Grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, fresh bread I made yesterday.
"How so?"
"The way Ridge talks about you, I expected some kind of feral hermit who communicates in grunts and lives off the land."
"I do live off the land. Sometimes." I flip the salmon. "But even hermits appreciate a good meal."
She perches on a bar stool, watching me cook. "Why did you really agree to this? The fake marriage thing."
I consider deflecting but decide on honesty. "Aunt Mildred is dying. Cancer. This will likely be her last Christmas."
"I'm sorry." Her voice softens. "That's rough."
"She helped raise me after my parents died. She and Beverly. I owe her some peace of mind in her final days."
"Even if it means pretending to be something you're not?"
I shrug. "Small price to pay to make an old woman happy."
Jennifer's quiet for a moment. "That's actually sweet. In a complicated, slightly dishonest way."
"What about you? Why did you agree? Besides the money."
She traces patterns on the countertop. "I needed a change of scenery. My ex, Tyler, he kind of destroyed my life in the city. Cleaned out our joint account. Told clients I was stealing his work. Classic gaslighting narcissist, but I didn't see it until it was too late."
Anger flares, surprising me with its intensity. "He stole from you?"
"Twenty thousand dollars. My half of our savings." Her smile is bitter. "Turns out he'd been planning his exit strategy for months while I was busy planning our future. The twelve thousand you're paying me will help rebuild what he took."
My jaw tightens. "He should be held accountable."
"In a just world, sure. But proving financial abuse is nearly impossible. Lesson learned. Never trust a man with dimples and a trust fund."
The vulnerability in her voice stirs something protective in me. "Not all men are like that."
"No?" She meets my eyes. "What are you like, Jared Calloway?"
The question hangs between us, charged with something I can't quite name.
"Complicated," I finally say. "Probably not worth the trouble."
"I like complicated." She takes the plates I've prepared and carries them to the table. "Simple is boring."
We eat dinner by the fireplace, watching snow begin to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows.
The conversation flows easier than I expected.
Jennifer tells stories about her design clients, including a particularly demanding pet boutique owner who wanted "luxurious but approachable" branding for designer dog accessories.
I find myself laughing more than I have in months. There's something about her that cuts through my defenses. Something that makes me want to share parts of myself I usually keep hidden.
After dinner, she insists we practice "couple behavior" to make it convincing for Aunt Mildred.
"Hold my hand," she commands, extending her palm across the couch where we're sitting.
I comply, her small hand disappearing in mine. Her skin is soft, warm. My calluses catch against her smooth palm.
"Now put your arm around me. Like couples do when they watch TV."
This is more challenging. I awkwardly extend my arm along the back of the couch.
She sighs dramatically. "Not like you're afraid I'll bite. Like this." She scoots closer, fitting herself against my side, pulling my arm around her shoulders.
The scent of her shampoo fills my senses. Something floral and citrusy. Her body is soft and warm against mine.
"See? Natural," she says, though there's a slight tremor in her voice that suggests she's not as unaffected as she pretends.
"Natural," I echo, my own voice rougher than normal.
We stay like that, watching the snow fall. My body gradually relaxes into the unfamiliar contact. It's been so long since I've held someone like this. Years, probably.
"Your heart is racing," she says quietly.
"It's not."
"It is. I can feel it." She places her palm against my chest, directly over my heart. "Right here."
Her touch burns through my shirt. Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously.
I find myself leaning forward, drawn by some invisible force. She tilts her face up, lips parting slightly. We're inches apart, close enough that I can feel her breath on my face.
A log shifts in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The sound breaks the spell. I pull back abruptly, standing up from the couch.
"It's late," I say, my voice a strangled approximation of normal. "I should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow."
Jennifer blinks, looking dazed. "Right. Yes. Sleep. Good idea."
I gather the dinner dishes, needing something to do with my hands. "Bathroom's stocked with everything you should need. Extra blankets in the closet if you get cold."
"Thanks." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, not quite meeting my eyes. "For dinner. And... everything."
"No problem." I retreat to the kitchen, focusing on rinsing plates rather than the lingering warmth of her body against mine. The phantom sensation of her hand on my chest. The way her eyes darkened when she looked at my mouth.
This is a business arrangement, I remind myself harshly. Nothing more. In two weeks, she'll take her money and go back to her life. I'll return to my solitude. That's the plan.
So why does the thought sit like a stone in my gut?
When I return to the living room, Jennifer has gone upstairs to the master bedroom. My bedroom, now hers. I make up the couch with sheets and blankets, punching the pillow perhaps harder than necessary.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, blanketing the mountains in pristine white. Inside, my carefully constructed walls begin to crack, one Jennifer Walsh shaped fissure at a time.