Page 12 of Christmas with the Dominant Mountain Man
"It was a long time ago." I echo her earlier deflection.
She seems to understand, nodding once before sliding a plate with a cinnamon roll toward me. "Truce offering? For disrupting your perfectly ordered mountain hermit existence?"
The gentle teasing in her tone surprises me. I accept the plate, our fingers brushing again. This time, neither of us pulls away immediately.
"Truce accepted." I take a bite, unable to suppress an appreciative groan as flavors explode across my tongue. "Damn, that's good."
Her smile is genuine, pleasure lighting her eyes at my reaction. "Told you I stress bake. The worse the stress, the better the results."
"Then I should probably be terrified of how good these are."
She laughs, the sound warming the space. For a moment, the artifice of our arrangement falls away, leaving just a man and a woman sharing food in a storm-besieged cabin.
The moment shatters when her phone buzzes insistently on the counter. She checks it, her expression immediately closing.
"Everything okay?" I ask, though it's none of my business.
"Just my lawyer." She sets the phone screen-down. "Marc's father's team is relentless is all."
"What happens if they succeed in proving it's not real?"
"I owe them a million dollars I don't have, and my professional reputation gets destroyed." She meets my gaze directly. "This isn't just about money, Dario. Marc hasthreatened to make sure I never work in the industry again, and they have the resources to do it."
The matter-of-fact way she says it, without self-pity or dramatics, reinforces that protective feeling I've been trying to ignore.
"It just a question. Like I said they won't prove anything." I finish my coffee, setting down the mug with finality.
Relief softens her features. "Thank you."
"I should check the generator like I said I would." I move toward the door, needing distance from the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
She nods, professional mask slipping back into place. "I should get some work done while the internet's still functioning."
I watch her retreat upstairs, forcing myself to ignore the sway of her hips in those worn jeans. This arrangement is already complicated enough without adding unwanted attraction to the mix. And now there's an angry ex-fiancé and his powerful father to contend with.
A temporary wife. A temporary arrangement. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.
But as I hear her moving around upstairs, humming softly to herself while the scent of her baking fills my home, the lines already begin to blur.
CHAPTER FOUR
JUDITH
Iwake to the soft glow of early morning light filtering through unfamiliar windows. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the king-sized bed and rustic wood ceiling strange until memory returns. Right. I'm married. Living on a mountain. With a man who could model for Lumberjack Monthly if that were a thing.
The storm howled all night, rattling windows and moaning through the trees like a living creature. I'd lain awake for hours, listening to the wind and wondering what fresh hell I'd gotten myself into. It's morning now, and the silence suggests the storm has finally passed.
I stretch, enjoying the luxurious feel of high-thread-count sheets against my skin. Whatever else Dario Wallace might be, the man appreciates quality. The bedroom he's given me is stunning, spacious yet cozy, with panoramic views now blanketed in pristine white. The adjoining bathroom features a rainfall shower and deep soaking tub that could comfortably fit two people.
Not that I'm thinking about that.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wiggling my toes in the plush area rug. My phone shows no service bars, confirming what Dario warned about yesterday. The storm has knocked out both power and internet, leaving us truly isolated.
Fantastic.
I pull on leggings and an oversized sweater, then pad to the bathroom to freshen up. The hot water still works, thankfully, though Dario mentioned something about a backup system for essential services.
Downstairs, the aroma of coffee and woodsmoke greets me. Dario stands at the massive stone fireplace, stoking flames that cast dancing shadows across his broad shoulders. He's dressed simply in worn jeans and a black thermal that clings to his muscular frame. His dark hair is still damp from a shower, making me wonder if he's an early riser or never actually slept.
