Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
HUDSON
I swear I was ready to tell her to turn right around and go back where she came from. I was literally practicing the words I would say.
I had the speech rehearsed in my head. Something firm but not cruel. Something that got the point across—I live alone for a reason. I don't need anyone, especially not a stranger showing up with a contract.
But then I opened the door.
And now?
Now I can’t even remember how that speech started. Hell—the cat wasn’t even a deal breaker. He’s actually kind of cute.
She’s standing in my living room like some kind of wildflower—untamed and delicate all at once. Big eyes, sunlit hair, flushed cheeks from the cold. That smile—shy, uncertain, but real—slipped under my ribs and lodged itself there before I even knew what hit me.
And don’t even get me started on the dress. She looks like spring wandered into my mountain home and decided to stay a while. And I’m a sucker for spring.
I’m going to have a unicorn lump on the front of my forehead for about a week, but I don’t even care because I love the sound of her laugh. The edges of everything inside me start to blur.
I don’t even know what the hell we’re talking about now.
Something about the cat? Her name? I’m nodding, pretending to listen, but all I can do is stare at her mouth when she talks.
It's soft and pink and just a little bit nervous. Like she’s bracing for rejection but hoping she’s wrong.
I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like wrapped tightly around my cock and then I hate myself for thinking anything unpure about this gorgeous woman.
Shit—she’s probably half my age. I push every dirty thought down trying to prevent her from thinking I’m perverted.
Jesus.
I haven’t felt this way in years.
Haven’t felt anything in years compared to what’s happening now.
She can’t be older than twenty five. And she’s supposed to be my wife? This was a joke five minutes ago. Now it feels like the damn universe just sucker punched me and whispered, Surprise. She's real.
I should send her away. I should say, This was a mistake. I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work.
But the words won’t come.
However, the hard-on is here, and it’s not going anywhere. I try to hide behind the furniture and adjust myself, but I just met her and I don’t want to seem creepy. My thighs are burning, my balls are moving closer to my body, my cock is throbbing, and I’m toast.
I drag a hand over my face and mutter something about coffee, motioning toward the kitchen just so I can get a few steps away and breathe.
If I said something about baseball it might tip her off that I’m trying to avoid cumming in my pants right here and now.
My heart's beating like I just chopped firewood for an hour.
My hands are twitching, itching to paint for the first time in… hell, how long?
I glance back at her—Daisy. That’s her name.
She’s kneeling now, scooping up her darling little beast and murmuring to it like it’s a baby, nose scrunched in apology and affection, unaware that she just completely disarmed a man who’s made an art of keeping people out.
It doesn’t help that she is wearing a dress that leaves little to the imagination. It hugs her curves in all the right places, accentuating her small, but ample cleavage and the swell of her hips. I can feel my pulse quicken as I watched her move.
I ask her about her trip here. In reality I don’t care how she got here, I’m just sure of one thing—I’m never going to let her leave.
Her voice is soft but not timid. There’s something steady about it, like she’s used to being polite in places she doesn’t fully trust.
I clear my throat. “You, uh… found the place okay?”
“Eventually,” she says, grinning a little. “Your driveway's like a ski slope.”
I huff a laugh. She smiles again.
Then, almost like she’s forcing herself to be brave, she says, “I figured before I unpack and settle in, we could go over the rules together.”
I blink. “The rules?”
She tilts her head, her brows drawing together. “Yeah, the agency’s rules. You know… Mountain Mates? They said both parties are expected to review the arrangement and agree on boundaries, expectations, shared responsibilities?—”
“Right,” I cut in quickly, nodding like I’ve got a clue. “Of course. The rules.”
She gives me a look—like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking or just slow. I smile a little too wide, hoping it covers the fact that my brain has just hit a brick wall.
I haven’t read a single word from this agency. Didn’t even know I was signed up for it until forty five minutes before she got here.
“Do you, uh… have the list?” I ask, gesturing vaguely.
“Yeah,” she says, and pulls out a folded sheet of paper from her bag like a teacher ready for day one. “I highlighted the ones I think are most important. There’s a part about financial arrangements, living quarters, and whether or not we’re sharing a bedroom right away…”
I cough. “Sharing a… bedroom?”
She blushes—bright red. “Only if we both agree. I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying it’s on the form.”
Jesus. I nod like a man who’s been hit over the head with a shovel. “Of course. Naturally. The form.”
She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. I get the feeling she’s not buying the act.
We sit across from each other at my old wooden kitchen table, a crinkled piece of paper between us—the so-called Mountain Mates Pre-Wedding Checklist. I can’t really see it.
It’s got little boxes with prompts like “Discuss shared values” and “Talk about family traditions” and, of course, the boldest one at the top.
She reads to me: “2. You’re going to be married soon. Ask about each other’s life.”
It’s surreal. I feel like I’m in some sort of experimental theater production. Except I can’t stop looking at her. Daisy. She’s sitting there with her cat curled up on her lap like he owns the damn place, and she’s biting her lip like she’s trying not to smile.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “So,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Tell me about your life.”
She lets out a little breath through her nose, her eyebrows lifting. “Which part? The thrilling absence of a social circle? Or the extremely glamorous way I had to borrow bus fare to get here?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You really know how to sell yourself.”
“Well,” she says with a playful shrug, “I didn’t say I was here for my sparkling reputation. I’m here because, believe it or not, I’m incredibly dateable in theory.”
“In theory,” I repeat, grinning. “That’s promising.”
She nudges the paper toward me. “Your turn, Picasso. Tell me about your thriving personal life.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Let’s see. I talk to my best friend once every couple weeks, mostly to yell at him. I haven’t been into town in weeks. I paint things, then ignore the world. Sometimes I yell at squirrels.”
She laughs. Full, real laughter. It lights her face up in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“You yell at squirrels?”
“They steal my apples off the trees,” I say, dead serious. “Don’t let the fluffy tails fool you.”
“I’ll add that to the checklist: Potential squirrel feud—ongoing. ”
We’re both smiling. Not polite, forced smiles. Real ones. The kind that sneak up on you and feel like sunlight cracking through after a long storm.
Her eyes flick back to the list. “No friends,” she murmurs.
“Some friends,” I correct, “I tend to keep a very small social circle.”
We both try to shrug it off, to make it sound lighter than it is. But there’s a moment of quiet honesty hanging in the space between us. Neither of us has anyone. Not really. And yet here we are, sitting across from a stranger we’re supposed to marry.
"Should we move on to the third rule?" she asks, her voice soft, almost teasing.
I blink. “Third rule?"
She rises from her chair slowly, one hand still resting on the back of it, her other brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She starts walking toward me, and every step makes my heart pound a little harder. Her cat stays put on the table like this is all routine—like this happens every day.
I straighten up. "What are you doing?"
She gives a slight, amused shrug. "Following the third rule."
I squint. "Which is...?"
She stops just a foot away from me, looking up through her lashes like she’s daring me to step back—or maybe hoping I don’t. “ 3. Initiate physical contact .” she says matter-of-factly. “The agency says it helps build connection and trust. They even recommend... a kiss.”
“A kiss,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice even.
She nods, serious as can be. “It’s encouraged, but if you don’t want to…” She looks down sheepishly.
I swallow. Hard. “Right... the agency rules.” I try to sound like I’ve known them all along, like I’ve memorized the whole ridiculous handbook. My palms are sweating. I haven’t kissed anyone in years, haven’t even wanted to. But now, with her this close, my body has other ideas.
I move first—just a quick step forward. I tell myself it’ll be fast, mechanical. A box to check off. Nothing more.
I lean down. She lifts her chin.
My lips touch hers.
It’s meant to be brief, a polite tap, something forgettable.
But then something happens.
Her hand grazes my arm—barely there, but enough—and I can’t pull back. The moment stretches, bends, twists around us like time forgot to keep going. Her lips are soft and warm, and the way she leans into it—not eager, not shy, just sure—knocks something loose inside me.
I finally pull away, slower than I meant to, blinking like I’m waking from a dream.
She clears her throat, cheeks flushed, eyes wide but not embarrassed. “That was... probably sufficient for rule three.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice lower than I expect. “Definitely... sufficient.”
Her lips still linger on mine, even though the kiss is over.
I’m hooked.
Not just on her lips, soft and unsure. Not just on the way she smelled… sweet as honey. I’m hooked on the way her eyes fluttered shut. The tiny sound she made when I leaned in. The way my heart raced because I hadn’t kissed anyone in years. Because I didn’t want to. Not until her.
“I should let you have the bedroom,” I say, voice a little too low, trying to sound casual. “I’ll… I’ll sleep in the studio.”
Her smile falters. “That’s a good idea,” she says, nodding. But she says it like she doesn’t believe it. And I truly hope she doesn’t.
I swallow the ache that rises in my throat and give her a tight smile, then head out before I do something stupid—like ask her to stay with me. Like ask if we can try that kiss again, slower this time.
The studio is cool and quiet, and I settle into the cot tucked in the corner.
I’m not used to this—whatever this is. Wanting someone and not just physically.
Wanting to know her. Wanting to hear her laugh again, not because I said something funny, but because she feels safe. I want her to feel safe here.
My chest is tight, and I don’t know if it’s nerves or something worse. Something deeper. She’s only been here a few hours, and already she’s rearranging my whole outlook on life. She’s inside every thought. In every brushstroke I imagine. In every breath I take.
I turn over. But I can’t get comfortable. Not when all I can see is her face, lit up by the soft light in the living room, leaning in, and gently offering me her soft, pillowy lips. And those aren’t the only lips I fantasize about. I want more. So much more.