Page 15 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

"I'd like to see more of your work," she says, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "Your furniture."

"I'd like to show you," I reply, turning my palm up to capture her fingers.

She opens her mouth to respond when her phone rings, the harsh electronic sound jarring in the peaceful cabin. She startles, then reaches for where it sits on the counter, charging from one of the solar batteries.

"It's the real estate agent," she says, glancing at the screen. Her eyes meet mine, a question in them.

I say nothing, just watch her with steady calm. This is her choice to make. I won't pressure her, won't beg or plead. What's between us is either real enough to withstand this test, or it isn't.

She answers the call, putting it on speaker. "Hello, Janet."

"Violet! Thank goodness I got through. Cell service is spotty after these storms." The woman's voice is bright, enthusiastic. "I've got great news. I've already had three inquiries about the property, sight unseen. One buyer is willing to go ten percent above asking if we can close quickly. The market for mountain retreats is red hot right now."

I remain perfectly still, my face neutral. Violet's eyes haven't left mine.

"That sounds promising," she says, her voice revealing nothing.

"It's more than promising, it's fantastic! I can be out there tomorrow morning, paperwork ready. We could have an offer accepted by noon, and you'd be on your way back to Chicago by dinner time. How does that sound?"

Violet's expression softens as she looks at me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Actually, Janet, there's been a change of plans."

I feel my heart speed up, but I keep my breathing steady.

"Oh?" The agent sounds confused.

"I've decided to keep the cabin," Violet says, her voice gaining confidence with each word. "I'm not selling."

There's a pause, then a disappointed, "Are you sure? This is a seller's market, and—"

"I'm sure," Violet interrupts gently but firmly. "This place has been in my family for decades. It needs to stay that way."

After a few more attempts at persuasion, the call ends. Violet sets the phone down and looks at me, something soft and vulnerable in her expression.

I stand and move around the table, reaching for her hand. She takes it, rising to meet me.

"I knew you'd feel it too," I say simply, my hand finding the small of her back, drawing her closer.

"Feel what?" she asks, though I think she knows.

"That this is where you belong. That this mountain gets in your blood. That some places claim you as much as you claim them."

She nods, her hands sliding up my chest to link behind my neck. "I felt it the moment I stepped out of the car. And then I saw you, and..." She shakes her head slightly. "It was like some part of me had been waiting, without even knowing what for."

I kiss her then, gently, reverently, trying to pour everything I feel into the connection of our lips. She responds in kind, her body melting against mine with that same perfect fit that still amazes me.

Later, we sit on the porch swing, Violet curled against my side, my arm around her shoulders. The night is clear, stars scattered across the black velvet sky like diamonds on jeweler's cloth. The air is cool and sweet with pine, the only sounds the creaking of the swing and the chorus of night insects.

Her head rests on my shoulder, her breathing deep and even. Not asleep, but peaceful. Content. Home.

I press a kiss to her hair, inhaling the scent that's already as familiar to me as my own. Two days ago, I stood on this porch waiting, hoping, believing. Now I sit here knowing, holding, complete.

The mountain air wraps around us like a blessing, and the cabin at our backs stands solid and true—a testament to things built to last, to legacies preserved, to love that finds its way home even through the longest night.

Epilogue – Violet

Three Years Later

The late summer breeze carries the scent of pine and wildflowers across the porch, rustling the pages of my book. I've read the same paragraph three times now, distracted by the flutter of movement inside my belly—tiny feet or elbows or knees, I can't be sure which, pressing against my ribs.

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