Chapter 3
Ellie
Wyatt’s cabin smells like pine, coffee, and the kind of clean that comes from a man who does not tolerate clutter or weakness.
It also smells like him—woodsmoke and soap and something darker under it that makes my skin feel too tight. Like my body knows it’s standing in the middle of a bad decision and would like to make it worse.
I drop my backpack by the couch and stare at him like he’s a problem I’m not sure how to solve.
Before I can open my mouth a dog, black and white and fluffy and full of energy bounces into the room, tail wagging.
“Oh! Who is this?” I bend, scratching the dog behind the ears.
“This is Jake. He’s full of trouble and will lick you into submission. I hope you like dogs.”
“I love them!” I gush as Jake rolls over and exposes his belly for rubs. I spend a few minutes giving him all the puppy love and then giggle when he licks my cheeks in thanks.
Wyatt just stares at me like he’s already solved me.
“So the rules,” he says, and it isn’t a suggestion.
I blink. “Your dog gives a warmer welcome than you do.”
His gaze slides over me, slow, controlled, rude. “You want a warm welcome, you can go back down the mountain. You want safe, you listen.”
The way he says safe should not make heat curl low in my belly, but it does. I shift my weight, annoyed at myself, and make my mouth do something sharp. “Do you talk to everyone like they’re one wrong move from getting grounded?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “And it works.”
I scoff. “I’m not a kid, Wyatt.”
His mouth twitches like he’s amused by the fact I said his name. He steps closer, not in a threatening way—worse. In a confident way. Like he knows I’m going to hold my ground because I always do, and he’s counting on it.
“You’re not a kid,” he agrees, voice low. “That’s the problem.”
My throat tightens. “Excuse me?”
He tilts his head, eyes dark. “You’re in my cabin, wearing that look that says you’d rather chew glass than admit you’re scared, and you think I’m going to play nice?”
“I don’t think you play nice with anyone,” I shoot back.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Careful.”
“Careful?” I repeat, laugh too bright. “You’re the one who posted a mail-order bride ad like you’re a grumpy pioneer.”
His jaw shifts. The control on his face holds, but I see the strain at the edges. The way his hand flexes once at his side like it wants to grab something.
Me, probably.
He doesn’t. He just says, “First rule. You don’t leave this property without telling me.”
I lift my brows. “That’s not a rule. That’s a hostage situation.”
He steps closer again, until I can smell him properly. My pulse stutters like it’s tripping over its own feet.
“You’re not a hostage,” he says. “You’re protected.”
“By you.”
“By me.”
The way he repeats it makes my stomach flip. I tilt my chin, refusing to let him see it. “Second rule?”
“You stay where I can find you,” he says.
I blink. “That’s the same rule.”
“It’s not,” he says, patient like he’s talking to a child. “First rule is about leaving. Second rule is about disappearing.”
My spine goes stiff. “I’m not disappearing.”
He watches my face like he’s reading a lie I don’t want to admit. “Not on purpose, you’re not.”
I push the words out with a smirk because if I don’t, they’ll come out trembling. “Are you always this controlling, or is this your special mail-order bride personality?”
His eyes narrow. “Third rule. You don’t go into the woods behind the cabin.”
I gesture toward the window. “We’re literally in the woods.”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
I cross my arms. “What’s out there? Bears? Serial killers? Your secret bunker where you keep all the women who didn’t follow your rules?”
He steps in close enough that my back nearly hits the kitchen counter. His voice drops. “Don’t test me, Ellie.”
The sound of my name in his mouth is a problem. It hits too deep, too familiar, too intimate, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can throw up a wall.
I force a laugh. “You’re not that scary.”
His eyes slide down my body again, slower this time, like he’s taking inventory of everything I’m trying to pretend isn’t happening. “You sure?”
Heat climbs my neck. I uncross my arms and grab my backpack strap instead. It’s safer to hold on to something.
“I’m sure,” I say, even though my voice comes out slightly breathless.
Wyatt’s mouth tilts into something that isn’t a smile, exactly. It’s a promise. “Good.”
Then he steps back like he didn’t just turn the air into fire.
I exhale, annoyed, and yank my backpack up again. “Fine. Your rules. Whatever. Where am I supposed to—”
“Down the hall,” he says, pointing. “Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen’s yours. Don’t touch the locked drawer in the desk.”
My brows shoot up. “Now who’s the serial killer?”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Fourth rule. Don’t touch what I tell you not to touch.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re allergic to fun.”
“Fun gets people hurt,” he says, flat.
That lands sharper than the flirtatious edge we’ve been skating on. For a second, I see it—something old and hard behind his eyes. Something that doesn’t joke.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that steady, confident Wyatt who thinks he can command the world into behaving.
I toss my backpack onto the bed in the small bedroom, then glance at the dresser like it might magically contain my clothes.
It doesn’t.
Because my clothes are locked inside my shop with a foreclosure notice taped to the glass.
I swallow the lump in my throat and walk back out, trying to keep my face neutral.
Wyatt is standing by the wood stove, arms folded, watching me like he can tell the exact second my pride starts to crack.
“What,” I say, too sharp. “Are you going to lecture me about packing better?”
“You didn’t pack at all,” he says.
“I packed,” I argue. “I have—” I unzip my bag and show him the sad contents: a travel toothbrush, a phone charger, a pair of flipflops, and a chocolate bar I stole from my own shop last week before I went for a hike along the Phantom River.
Wyatt’s gaze drops to the chocolate bar. Something like irritation flashes across his face.
“Really?” he says.
“What?” I snap. “It’s an emergency.”
“It’s sugar.”
“It’s survival.”
His mouth twitches. “Fifth rule. You eat real food.”
I laugh. “You can’t make a rule about my diet.”
“I can make a rule about anything in my cabin.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
His eyes sweep over me, lingering on my mouth again. “No. If I was enjoying it, you’d know.”
My breath catches.
He holds my gaze, unfiltered, like he’s daring me to understand what he just implied.
My cheeks burn hot. I straighten my shoulders. “Okay. Great. Super normal conversation. Anyway—clothes. I need clothes.”
Wyatt turns toward the hall closet and yanks it open. He reaches in, pulls out a folded flannel shirt, and tosses it at me.
I catch it against my chest.
It’s heavy. Warm. Smells like him.
My stomach does something stupid.
I lift it between two fingers like it’s suspicious. “This is… yours.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not wearing your shirt.”
Wyatt’s brows lift slightly. “Then you can wear the socks and the toothbrush. Those seem to be the only other options.”
I scowl. “I could go back to town and buy clothes.”
His gaze goes hard. “No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“No,” he repeats, like he’s talking to his dog. “You’re not going into town alone.”
“I’m not a child.”
His eyes flick down my body, then back to my face. “You keep saying that like it changes anything.”
My fingers tighten on the flannel. “Wyatt, I need to get into my shop. I need my things. I need—”
“You can’t,” he says, calm. “Not today.”
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tighten again. I hate it. I also hate how safe it feels when he decides something.
I force my jaw to relax. “And what am I supposed to do up here? Play house? Pretend I’m your—” I cut myself off because the word bride tastes like trouble.
Wyatt’s gaze darkens. “You answered the ad.”
“I answered it because I needed a place to stay,” I snap.
“And you got it.”
“And you get…” I wave a hand at him. “What do you get out of this, Wyatt? You still haven’t told me why you posted it.”
His jaw shifts. He looks away for half a second, like he’s deciding how much truth to give me.
Then he looks back, steady and unapologetic. “I needed a wife on paper.”
My pulse kicks.
“Why?” I press.
He steps closer again, slow, controlled. “Because I don’t like being cornered.”
That’s not an answer. It’s an admission.
I swallow. “Who’s cornering you?”
Wyatt’s eyes hold mine. “Not you.”
A beat passes.
Then he says, “Put the shirt on, Ellie.”
I blink. “Or what?”
His gaze drops to the flannel in my hands. “Or you keep smelling like chocolate and panic, and I keep thinking about what you’d taste like if I put my mouth on you.”
My body goes hot, fast.
I stare at him, stunned.
He doesn’t look embarrassed. He doesn’t look like he regrets saying it. He looks like a man who’s done pretending he doesn’t want what he wants.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Wyatt’s voice stays calm. “You wanted honesty. There it is.”
“Wyatt,” I manage, and my voice is thin. “You’re… you’re not supposed to say things like that.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because you’re Wade’s best friend.”
His eyes narrow. “And?”
“And I’m—” I stop, because the real answer is: because it makes me want to do reckless things.
Wyatt steps close enough that the flannel presses between us. His gaze locks on my face like he’s pinning me in place without touching me.
“You’re here,” he says. “In my cabin. In my shirt. Off a bride ad. You want to keep pretending this is polite?”
My breath stutters. “I’m not in your shirt.”
He nods at the flannel. “Yet.”
The air between us hums, tight and hot. I can hear the tick of the old clock on the wall, the soft crackle of wood settling, the rush of my own blood.
I swallow hard. “Fine.”
Wyatt’s brow lifts slightly.
I glare at him, then turn away, marching toward the bathroom like I’m furious instead of flustered.