The Firefighter’s Forever Bride (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #13)

Chapter 1

Ellie

The bell over my shop door doesn’t ring.

That’s the first wrong thing. Not the foreclosure notice. Not the panic crawling up my throat.

“What the hell,” I whisper, leaning in. My breath fogs the glass. I can see my own reflection—messy bun, hoodie, leggings, the kind of outfit I wear when I’m planning to melt chocolate and pretend I have my life together.

I press my palm to the window and peer inside.

The lights are off, but the sun hits the copper kettles and the polished counter. My display case is there. The trays I set up last night. The chalkboard menu I rewrote because the “Devil’s Kiss” lettering wasn’t slanted enough.

Everything looks normal.

Except for the neon-orange paper taped dead center on the inside of the glass.

My stomach drops.

I bend, squint through the glare, and read the first line. My throat closes around it.

NOTICE OF DEFAULT.

I straighten too fast and nearly stumble. My coffee sloshes, hot liquid splashing my fingers, but I barely feel it.

No.

No, no, no.

I pull my phone out with hands that suddenly don’t work right and tap my banking app. It spins. Loads. Spins again.

Then a red banner flashes.

ACCOUNT RESTRICTED.

My ears start ringing.

I swipe through notifications. Missed emails. Missed calls. A voicemail timestamped last night.

I hit play and press the phone to my ear.

“Ms. James,” a man’s voice says, flat and official, like he’s reading off a script he uses to ruin people’s lives before lunch.

“This is regarding your outstanding balance. The bank is exercising its rights under your agreement. Effective immediately, the property is in foreclosure proceedings. Do not attempt entry. You will be contacted with next steps.”

Beep.

My mouth goes dry.

Do not attempt entry.

My chest tightens like I’m being squeezed from the inside. I stare through the glass, at the counters, the shelves, the back room door. My inventory is in there. My paperwork. My receipts. My equipment.

My emergency bag is in there. My entire life is locked in the one bedroom studio apartment upstairs.

All of my clothes.

I just stepped away for coffee at The Devil’s Brew for twenty minutes and now I’m locked out of my life and livelihood.

I try the door again anyway, like the universe is going to remember who I am.

Locked.

I suck in a breath, forcing it down, forcing my face smooth because someone is walking past and I can feel their glance snag on the orange paper. Devil’s Peak is small enough that sympathy is a spectator sport.

My phone buzzes.

A text lights up the screen like a slap.

Graham:

Don’t make this ugly, Ellie. I tried to handle it quietly. You’re welcome.

My fingers curl around the phone until my knuckles ache.

Graham. Of course.

My ex-boyfriend. The banker. The man who smiled when he offered me the loan that made my dream possible and smiled again when he made it clear the dream belonged to him.

I type back before I can stop myself.

Me:

What did you do?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

He takes his time. He always takes his time.

Graham:

I’m doing you a favor. You’re drowning. I’m throwing you a rope.

My jaw clenches so hard it hurts.

Me:

You changed the locks. That’s illegal.

Graham:

It’s not illegal when you signed your life away.

Heat crawls up my neck, into my cheeks.

Me:

This is because I left you.

Graham:

This is because you never learn. You could have had it all if you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need me.

I stare at that line until it blurs.

Because that’s what he’s really saying: come back.

Come beg.

Come let him decide what I deserve.

My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone. I force myself to breathe, slow and controlled, like I’m standing over a chocolate pot and one wrong move will seize everything.

I can’t go to my family. That’s not a solution, it’s punishment. My mother will call this proof that I should’ve gone to college like my sister. My father will look at me like I’m a cautionary tale. They’ll wrap their disappointment around me and call it love.

I can’t go to Wade either. Not yet. My brother will come down here ready to burn the town down, and he’ll ask me why I didn’t tell him things got this bad. He’ll look at me like I’m breakable.

And I’m not breakable.

I’m furious.

I’m just… cornered.

My phone buzzes again.

Graham:

Come see me. We’ll fix it.

My stomach flips, sick and sharp.

Fix it.

Like we’re talking about a paperwork error and not a man who’s taking my livelihood away because he can’t stand that I left.

I type one thing, quick and clean.

Me:

Go to hell.

I hit send and immediately feel the weight of it. Not fear. Not regret.

Just the understanding that I’ve officially made myself his enemy.

And enemies get punished.

I stare at the orange notice again, at the lock that doesn’t recognize me, at my life sitting behind glass like it’s a display I’m no longer allowed to touch.

My breathing turns shallow.

I need a place to go. Now.

Somewhere he can’t reach in an hour with a smile and a threat. Somewhere I can think without feeling his hand on the back of my neck.

I scroll without really knowing what I’m looking for, thumb jerking down my screen like I can shake an answer loose.

And then I see it again—the listing I dismissed last night because it sounded insane.

Bride wanted. Kindness and Security Offered. Dog Lovers Only.

I stare at it until my pulse slows and then spikes again, like my body can’t decide if this is survival or stupidity.

My finger hovers over the number.

This is reckless.

This is humiliating.

This is not who I am.

Except… it is. It has to be, because I’m out of choices.

I tap the number and bring the phone to my ear before I can talk myself out of it.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

On the third ring, a man answers with one word, rough and low.

“Yeah.”

My throat tightens. “Hi. I’m calling about the listing.”

Silence.

Then, “You read it.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. “You understand what it is.”

“I understand you’re offering… security.”

His voice drops, steady and certain. “I’m offering a place you can’t be reached.”

My fingers go numb around the phone. “Where?”

He says the address like it’s nothing.

And my stomach drops straight through the sidewalk.

Because I know that road. I know that turnoff. I know that stretch of land tucked into the trees like a secret.

Local.

Familiar.

Wrong.

My screen pings with a text a second later—his number sending the address again.

I stare at it, breath caught.

Because whatever I just agreed to?

It’s real.

And it’s close.