Chapter Two
Elias
I didn’t want a wife, but I needed one for a legal solution.
Just a signature on a piece of paper so I could secure guardianship of my niece, Wren, without the state breathing down my neck.
She’s fifteen and so bright and tough. She’s hurting more than she’ll admit after losing her mother a few months ago.
The last thing she needs is to be bounced around by people who don’t care about her.
This was supposed to be simple, but then Juniper Lancaster showed up on my porch with her bright clothes, too-big smile, and way too much cheer for someone walking into a half-finished cabin with a stranger she’d agreed to marry. She’s got this glow, like sunshine in human form, and it’s blinding.
I already know what happens when I care too much, when I try to build a life around people instead of wood and nails. People leave. But Juniper? She’s staying, at least for now.
She said it with her chin tilted and her hands on her hips like she dared me to tell her otherwise, and instead of shutting it down, I let her. Which might’ve been my first mistake.
Today, we drive into town for the ceremony. Judge Peterson agreed to sign the paperwork quietly, no big fuss—just me, Juniper, and the judge’s wife, as a witness.
Juniper’s wearing this soft green dress and boots that look like they’ve never seen mud. Her hair’s curled around her shoulders, and when she smiles at me, I swear the temperature rises ten degrees.
Judge Peterson gives her a warm hug, then turns to me and winks. “She’s prettier than you deserve, Elias.”
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, and Juniper laughs softly like she heard it anyway. The sound lodges itself somewhere deep in my chest.
I grunt something close to polite as we sign the papers, and Judge Peterson drones on about legal commitments and mutual benefit. Juniper nods solemnly, even though she looks like she’s trying not to laugh at how stiff I am.
“Do you, Elias Boone, agree to this marriage?”
“Yes,” I say. My voice is rougher than I intend, like there’s something stuck in my throat, I can’t clear.
“And do you, Juniper Lancaster, agree to this marriage?”
“I do,” she says, her voice steady.
I glance at her, just for a second. She looks serious, determined, and maybe a little nervous. There’s a flicker of something else in her eyes, too—hope, maybe.
When it’s done, she says with a teasing smile, “Well, that was romantic. Think we should celebrate or maybe take a honeymoon in the backyard?”
I don’t answer because if I let myself laugh, I might not stop, and if I keep looking at her like that, I’ll forget this is temporary. Forget why I started all this in the first place.
Back at the cabin, she follows me through the front door and scans the open layout. Her eyes roam over the unfinished walls, the exposed beams, the dust and tools everywhere, like she’s trying to see what it could become.
“So,” she says, arms crossed. “What exactly are you doing to the house?”
“Fixing it up.”
“For what?”
I pause, then answer honestly. “For Wren and I, and you too, now.”
She tilts her head. “What kind of fixing?”
“Adding a full bedroom. Expanding the living area. Putting in insulation before winter. Right now, there’s not enough space.”
Her face softens. “Can I help?”
“No.” The word comes out too fast, too harsh.
She blinks, then lifts one brow. “Because I’m a girl?”
“Because being around you is already too damn much.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. Her mouth parts slightly, but she doesn’t look offended.
“Too much?” she asks, stepping closer.
I shift, uncomfortable under her gaze. “You’re loud. You hum when you walk.”
She studies me, unblinking. “You keep saying you want space, Elias. But I think what you really want is to pretend none of this matters. That you can just survive without letting anyone in.”
I clench my jaw. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” she says. “But I know people, and you’ve got that look, the one that says you’ve lost too much already and you’re afraid to lose more. But guess what? I’ve lost too, and I’m still here. Still showing up and ready to swing a hammer.”
She reaches past me and grabs a tool off the workbench. Her fingers brush mine. It’s barely a touch, but it burns.
“I want to be a part of this, Elias. Not just the walls. All of it.”
I should say no. I should walk away. But the look in her eyes—it’s stubborn and warm and hopeful, and hell if it doesn’t break something loose inside me.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You can help.”
“Good,” she says brightly, grabbing a hammer like she’s been waiting for this moment all her life.
We spend the next few hours side by side, framing the bedroom wall.
She listens when I explain things, catches on quickly, and asks questions that make me smile even when I try not to.
Her boots get dusty. Her curls fall into her eyes.
She smears paint on her cheek without realizing it, and when I reach out to wipe it away, I almost forget to pull my hand back.
Every time she laughs at something I say, I feel like the damn studs and beams aren’t the only things taking shape.
She gets in close. Measures twice. Cuts once. She talks about wanting to plant herbs outside, about curtains and paint colors, and a reading nook in the corner. She dreams out loud, and for some reason, I listen. For the first time in years, I listen.
She leans over to mark a beam, and her hip brushes mine—the air shifts. My hands freeze on the level I’m holding. I glance down at her and catch the faint rise of color in her cheeks. She felt it too.
I take a deliberate step back.
By sunset, the wall is finished, and she leans against it proudly. “See? Teamwork.”
I should keep my distance. I should remind myself she’s temporary. But when she smiles at me like she sees past the walls I’ve spent years building, I forget why I wanted space in the first place.
Because the truth is, I don’t want her here, I need her here. And that scares the hell out of me.