Page 16 of My Obsessive Mountain Man

I rest my hand over the spot, feeling the contours of our daughter through the stretched fabric of my sundress.

"Settle down in there, little one," I murmur. "Your mama's trying to read."

The porch swing creaks gently as I shift, seeking a more comfortable position. At eight months pregnant, comfort is relative—a moving target that changes hourly. Still, I wouldn't trade this fullness, this rounded heaviness, for anything in the world. My body feels powerful, purposeful, exactly as it should be.

The cabin spreads out behind me, no longer just grandma Martha's place or even just mine—but ours. Paul and I have spent the past three years breathing new life into these old logs, expanding rooms, adding skylights, turning the treasure room into a shared office where I run my appraisal business and Paul designs his custom furniture.

From my seat on the porch, I can see the workshop he built last summer, its doors wide open to catch the mountain air as he works.

My laptop sits closed on the table beside me, next to a half-empty mug of peppermint tea. Three client emails answered,two valuations completed, one auction house consulted—all before lunch. The Carson-Mullins Appraisal and Design logo glows faintly on the lid—a simple emblem of how seamlessly our separate lives have intertwined.

The screen door creaks, and I look up to see Paul emerging from the cabin, carefully maneuvering something large and covered with a sheet. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as he navigates the doorway.

Even after all these years, the sight of him still makes my heart skip—those broad shoulders, strong hands, the way his dark hair curls slightly at his neck where it needs cutting.

"Close your eyes," he instructs, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Paul Mullins, what have you done now?" I ask, but I comply, letting my eyelids fall shut. I hear the soft thud of something being set down on the porch boards, then the warmth of his presence as he kneels beside the swing.

"Okay," he says. "Look."

I open my eyes to find him watching my face, eager for my reaction. My gaze shifts to what he's brought out—and my breath catches.

It's a cradle, the sheet now pulled away to reveal gleaming wood polished to a soft luster. But calling it merely a cradle feels inadequate. It's a work of art—cherry wood carved with intricate mountain landscapes that flow seamlessly around its curved edges. The rockers underneath are perfectly proportioned, and I can already imagine the gentle motion they'll provide. Small forest creatures—a fox, a bear cub, a family of deer—are carved into the headboard, watching over the space where our daughter will sleep.

"Paul," I whisper, reaching out to trace the polished wood with my fingertips. "It's exquisite."

"Three different types of wood," he explains, his voice carrying that quiet pride I've come to recognize. "Cherry for the frame, maple for the inlays, walnut for the darker accents. I've been working on it for months, whenever you were busy with clients."

"That's why you've been locking the workshop?" I ask, understanding dawning.

He nods, moving to kneel directly in front of me. His hands, always so capable and strong, come to rest on either side of my rounded belly. "I wanted it to be perfect. For her."

As if responding to her father's voice, the baby gives a forceful kick right against his palm. Paul's face lights up with the same wonder it showed the first time he felt her move.

"Strong," he says, rubbing the spot gently. "Like her mother."

"Stubborn," I counter with a smile. "Like her father."

"Determined," he corrects, leaning forward to press a kiss to my belly. "There's a difference."

I laugh, running my fingers through his hair. "Is that what you call it when you spent three days searching the forest for exactly the right piece of burl wood for our dining table?"

"That was craftsmanship," he defends, but his eyes crinkle with humor. "Speaking of which, did you eat the lunch I left for you?"

"I did," I nod. "And then I ate yours too. And then I may have made a peanut butter and pickle sandwich."

He grimaces. "That's still happening, huh?"

"Judge all you want, mountain man, but your daughter has specific tastes." I shift again, making room for him on the swing beside me. "Besides, you're the one who put pickle juice in the refrigerator door last week 'for easy access.'"

He settles next to me, his arm around my shoulders, fingers absently stroking my arm. "I'm just supporting my girls' needs," he says, dropping a kiss to my temple. "Even the disgusting ones."

The familiar weight of him beside me, the scent of sawdust and pine that clings to his skin—these simple things ground me in the present moment, in this life we've built together.

Three years ago, I came to this mountain expecting to spend less than forty-eight hours here. Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

"How's the commission coming?" I ask, nodding toward the workshop.

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