Chapter Four
Elias
The sun hasn’t even cleared the treetops, and I’m already pacing. Wren will be here in three days.
Three. Days.
The cabin is still half a construction site.
The kitchen’s usable, the bedroom’s done, and the roof no longer leaks when it rains, but the living room’s a skeleton, and the hallway floor still creaks like a haunted house.
I wanted to have everything ready to prove I could do this.
I need to give her a stable home, a quiet place to heal.
Instead, I’ve got sawdust in my hair, a half-finished cabin, and a woman who keeps looking at me like she sees more than she should.
She hums while she cooks. Twirls her hair when she reads. Bends over in tight jeans and damn near wrecks me every time she does it. In short, she’s driving me crazy.
She’s painting the trim in the guest room today. I told her not to, said I’d handle it, and she ignored me.
I lean in the doorway and watch her for a moment.
She’s barefoot, with paint flecks on her cheek, wearing an oversized flannel tied at the waist. Her hair’s a mess, and her smile is soft and faraway as she brushes paint across the windowsill.
There’s a spot of pale blue on the curve of her neck, and it takes everything in me not to walk across the room and kiss it.
“You missed a spot.”
She startles, then glares. “Don’t sneak up on people, Elias.”
“Didn’t sneak. Just walked.”
Her lips twitch. “Like a lumbering mountain lion.”
“Didn’t know mountain lions lumbered.”
“They do when they’re grumpy.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “You didn’t have to do this.”
She shrugs. “She’s your niece, and this is her room. It should feel warm. Comfortable. I want to show her we care enough to make it nice.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I can’t remember the last time someone gave that kind of thought to anything in this house. Guilt mixes with frustration in my chest.
I walk into the room and inspect the wall. “You’ve got paint in your hair.”
Juniper grins. “Probably. I’m a menace with a brush.”
I step closer. “Here.” I reach out before I can think better of it and gently pick the dried paint from her hair. She goes still beneath my hand. Her breath catches. Her eyes lift to mine.
The silence stretches. My fingers linger longer than they should. I clear my throat and step back like I touched a live wire. I turn to leave.
She says behind me, “You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”
I pause.
She keeps going, quietly. “You take everything on your shoulders, like you’re afraid to let anyone help. This is my home now, too. Let me help you carry some of it.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know how to answer that, so I leave.
Dinner is quiet. Too quiet.
She makes soup and biscuits. I open a bottle of wine. She chats about Annie and the fall market and how she wants to decorate the porch with pumpkins. I grunt in all the right places, but my mind’s a storm.
I watch her over the rim of my glass. The way she dips her head when she laughs at her own jokes. The way she licks a crumb from her bottom lip. Everything about her is soft and bright and maddeningly beautiful.
Finally, she slams her spoon down. “This isn’t working.”
I lift a brow. “The soup’s fine.”
“I’m not talking about the soup. I’m talking about this. You stomping around like I’m invading your life, when we’re married .”
“It’s not real,” I snap before I can stop myself.
She jerks back like I hit her.
“I mean—” I rake a hand through my hair. “It’s legal, but it’s temporary. You know that.”
She stands slowly, her eyes flashing. “I’m just a placeholder? A means to an end?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
I rise to my feet. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t want a wife. I needed a name on a form so I could get custody of Wren.”
Her chin trembles, but she doesn’t cry. “And what happens to me once the judge signs off?”
I open my mouth, close it again. I don’t have an answer.
She steps toward me, her jaw set. “I’ve cleaned your filthy kitchen. Washed your laundry. Helped build this house, cooked your meals, and put up with your damn mood swings all for a teenager I haven’t even met. That has to mean something.”
The air crackles. Her chest rises and falls with each breath. I’m aware of everything. The fire in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the way her shirt clings to her curves. Her scent is embedded in my brain.
She moves to walk past me. I grab her wrist.
“Let go.”
“Not until you hear me.”
“I heard you.” She yanks her hand free. “Loud and clear.”
I stare down at her, breathing hard. Her chest brushes mine with every inhale. Her cheeks are pink with fury. She’s close enough to kiss.
“I’m not temporary,” she whispers. “And neither are these feelings.”
I don’t know who moves first. All I know is one second we’re staring each other down, and the next, my hand is buried in her hair and our lips are a breath apart. Her lips part. Her breath catches.
I pull back like I’ve been burned.
“I can’t,” I mutter, my voice raw.
“Why not?” she asks, voice trembling.
“Because once Wren gets here, we have to pretend this is real, and if we cross this line—”
“It already is real,” she says. “You’re just too scared to admit it.”
She storms off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. I stare after her, my hands clenched into fists. My chest aches. I do want her desperately.
There’s more to it than that. When Wren arrives, it won’t be enough just to have a roof and walls. I need to demonstrate to the social worker that we’re a family. That we’re stable, that Juniper and I are in this together, and our marriage is real.
Which means no separate bedrooms. No icy silences. No more pretending Juniper doesn’t matter.
I have to pull it together. Be the man Wren needs, be the husband Juniper agreed to marry.
Losing Wren isn’t an option.