Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
JARED
Five days into our fake marriage, and I'm in trouble.
Jennifer Walsh has invaded every corner of my carefully constructed solitude. Her belongings scattered throughout my cabin. Her scent lingering in rooms even when she's not there. Her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
And worst of all, I like it.
I stand at the kitchen window, watching her outside on the deck.
She's set up her easel to capture the mountain view, bundled in one of my flannel shirts over her own sweater.
It swallows her small frame, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her hands.
Something possessive and primal stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothing.
This is getting complicated. Dangerous.
The past few days have established a routine of sorts.
I wake early, exercise, and make coffee.
Jennifer emerges mid morning, sleep rumpled and adorable, making straight for the coffee pot.
We work separately during the day, me handling store business remotely, her designing in the office downstairs.
We cook dinner together in the evenings, then talk by the fire until one of us remembers this is supposed to be temporary and creates some excuse to separate.
And every night, I lie awake on the couch downstairs, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she's doing in my bed upstairs.
Jennifer turns and catches me watching her through the window. She waves, smiling that bright smile that does strange things to my chest, then gestures for me to join her. I shouldn't. I have inventory reports to review. Orders to place. A hundred reasons to maintain distance.
I grab my coat and go outside.
"Come look at this," she says as soon as I step onto the deck. "I'm trying to capture that blue shadow effect on the snow, but I can't quite get it right."
I move behind her to examine the painting. It's good. Really good. She's captured the essence of the mountains in winter, the way the light plays across the snow covered peaks.
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "You have real talent."
"Thanks." She tilts her head, studying her work critically. "But the shadows are still off. See how the actual snow has that bluish purple tint in the shadowed areas? I can't mix the right color."
She's right. I hadn't noticed that detail before, but now that she points it out, I see it clearly.
"Try adding more ultramarine to your purple," I suggest. "And a touch of that slate gray."
She looks up at me, surprise evident. "You know about color mixing?"
I shrug, suddenly self conscious. "My mother was a painter. Landscapes, mostly. I used to watch her work."
"You never mentioned that." She dabs her brush into the colors I suggested, testing the mixture on a corner of her canvas. "It's perfect. How did you know?"
"She used to say snow shadows are never just gray. They reflect the sky." I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the memories. "You should come inside soon. Temperature's dropping."
"Five more minutes." She's already refocusing on her painting, adding the new shadow color with delicate strokes. "I need to capture this light before it changes."
I leave her to her work, but the conversation lingers.
I rarely speak about my parents. They died when I was fourteen, car accident on an icy mountain road not unlike the one leading to my cabin.
Aunt Beverly took me in. Aunt Mildred helped financially.
Life moved forward, but I locked those memories away, too painful to revisit.
Something about Jennifer makes those locked doors easier to open. Dangerous indeed.
My phone buzzes with a text from Beverly.
Aunt Beverly: One week until Mildred arrives! How are wedding preparations coming?
I stare at the message, momentarily confused before remembering our cover story. We told Beverly that Jennifer and I were renewing our vows as a Christmas gift to Aunt Mildred. A small ceremony at the cabin on Christmas Eve. More lies piled upon lies.
Me: Everything's on track, I text back. Jennifer's handling most details.
Another lie. We haven't discussed any kind of ceremony. I make a mental note to bring it up over dinner.
Jennifer comes in an hour later, cheeks flushed from the cold, painting in hand. "What do you think? Be honest."
The finished painting captures not just the view but the feeling of the mountains in winter. The majesty, the solitude, the quiet beauty.
"It's perfect," I say. "You've captured it exactly."
Her smile is like sunshine. "Really? I thought the foreground trees were still a little off, but if you like it, it must be okay. You're the mountain expert, after all."
"You should sell your work. Tourists would pay good money for paintings like this."
"Maybe." She sets the painting aside to dry. "Though I kind of want to keep this one. Memento of my time as Mrs. Calloway."
The casual reference to our arrangement feels like a bucket of ice water. A reminder that this is temporary. That in a week and a half, she'll take her painting and her laughter and leave my cabin as empty as it was before.
"Speaking of which," I say, forcing practicality into my voice. "Beverly texted about our supposed vow renewal ceremony. We should discuss details in case Aunt Mildred asks."
"Vow renewal?" She shrugs out of my flannel shirt, hanging it on a hook by the door. "Sounds fun. Christmas Eve wedding in a mountain cabin. Very Hallmark."
"We're not actually doing it," I remind her. "Just creating a plausible story."
"I know that." She rolls her eyes. "So what's our story? Small intimate ceremony? Just family? Or did we invite the whole town to witness our undying love?"
"Small. Family only. You, me, Aunt Mildred, Beverly."
"And Ridge," she adds. "He'd never forgive me if he missed my fake vow renewal."
"Ridge will be back from his guiding trip by then, so yes, he can attend our fictional ceremony."
She collapses onto the couch, feet tucked under her. "What about decor? Flowers? Music? I assume fictional me would go all out."
I hadn't considered those details. "Whatever you think is appropriate."
"Oh no you don't." She points a finger at me. "You don't get to check out of planning our fake wedding. What kind of husband does that make you?"
"A typical one?" I offer, earning a throw pillow to the face.
"Sit." She pats the couch beside her. "Wedding planning time, Mr. Calloway."
I sit, leaving what I think is a safe distance between us. Jennifer immediately scoots closer, eliminating that safety gap, her thigh pressed against mine.
"For the record," she says, "I've always wanted a winter wedding. Evergreen boughs. White roses. Twinkle lights everywhere. Cozy and intimate."
"Sounds nice."
"What about you? Any wedding fantasies hidden behind that gruff exterior?"
"Can't say I've given it much thought."
"Liar. Everyone thinks about their wedding day."
"Not everyone."
She studies my face. "You really haven't? Not even when you were with Sarah?"
I stiffen. "How do you know about Sarah?"
"Ridge mentioned her once. Said you were serious for a while. Before the accident."
Ridge talks too damn much. "Ancient history."
"Sorry." She touches my arm lightly. "Didn't mean to pry."
The gentleness in her voice erodes my defenses. "We dated for two years. Talked about marriage, vaguely. Then a burning tree nearly crushed me, and I became someone different. Someone she didn't sign up for."
"She left because you were injured?" Outrage colors her voice.
"Not exactly. I pushed her away. Made it impossible for her to stay." I run a hand over my face. "I wasn't easy to be around after the accident."
"So you decided all relationships were doomed and became a hermit?"
Put that way, it sounds ridiculous. "I decided I prefer solitude."
"Until your aunt forced you into a fake marriage." Her smile returns, softening the moment. "Lucky for you, I'm an excellent fake wife."
"Lucky indeed."
We spend the next hour planning a wedding that will never happen, Jennifer's enthusiasm infectious despite my best efforts to remain detached.
By the time we've "settled" on evergreen and holly decorations, a ceremony in front of the fireplace, and a dinner for five afterward, I've almost forgotten it's all pretend.
"We should practice our vows," she says suddenly. "Aunt Mildred will expect heartfelt declarations of love."
"I doubt she'll ask us to recite them."
"Better safe than sorry." She turns to face me fully on the couch, taking my hands in hers. "I'll go first."
Her small hands feel right in mine, warm and soft. She clears her throat dramatically.
"Jared Calloway," she begins, eyes twinkling with mischief.
"One year ago today, I promised to love your grumpy, hermit self until death do us part.
I promised to tolerate your unreasonable waking hours, your obsession with proper coffee beans, and your tendency to communicate in grunts and monosyllables. "
I snort. "I use plenty of syllables."
"Shh, I'm performing here." She squeezes my hands.
"I promised to bring laughter and color to your perfectly organized, terribly lonely mountain fortress.
And though our love story might seem unlikely to some, I wouldn't change a single moment of this past year.
Not the snowball fights, not the burnt pancakes, not even your refusal to use exclamation points in text messages.
Because beneath that rugged exterior beats the heart of a man worth loving, a man who sees me exactly as I am and somehow loves me anyway. "
Her voice softens on the last words, and something shifts in her expression. The teasing falls away, replaced by something vulnerable and real. For a moment, I can almost believe she means it.
"Your turn," she whispers.
Words stick in my throat. This is too close to something genuine. Too close to feelings I've been desperately trying to suppress since she barreled into my life with her bright smile and relentless warmth.
"I'm not good with words," I manage.