Page 10 of The Mountain Man's Fake Christmas Bride
Her laugh fills the kitchen. "You never know. She might be a very thorough interrogator."
We spend the afternoon quizzing each other. I learn that Jennifer takes her coffee with too much sugar, hates mornings but loves sunrise if she happens to be awake for it, and is allergic to strawberries. She discovers I read history books for pleasure, can name every peak in a fifty mile radius, and secretly enjoy cooking complex meals when I have the time.
"You're full of surprises, Mountain Man," she says as I prepare dinner. Grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, fresh bread I made yesterday.
"How so?"
"The way Ridge talks about you, I expected some kind of feral hermit who communicates in grunts and lives off the land."
"I do live off the land. Sometimes." I flip the salmon. "But even hermits appreciate a good meal."
She perches on a bar stool, watching me cook. "Why did you really agree to this? The fake marriage thing."
I consider deflecting but decide on honesty. "Aunt Mildred is dying. Cancer. This will likely be her last Christmas."
"I'm sorry." Her voice softens. "That's rough."
"She helped raise me after my parents died. She and Beverly. I owe her some peace of mind in her final days."
"Even if it means pretending to be something you're not?"
I shrug. "Small price to pay to make an old woman happy."
Jennifer's quiet for a moment. "That's actually sweet. In a complicated, slightly dishonest way."
"What about you? Why did you agree? Besides the money."
She traces patterns on the countertop. "I needed a change of scenery. My ex, Tyler, he kind of destroyed my life in the city. Cleaned out our joint account. Told clients I was stealing his work. Classic gaslighting narcissist, but I didn't see it until it was too late."
Anger flares, surprising me with its intensity. "He stole from you?"
"Twenty thousand dollars. My half of our savings." Her smile is bitter. "Turns out he'd been planning his exit strategy for months while I was busy planning our future. The twelve thousand you're paying me will help rebuild what he took."
My jaw tightens. "He should be held accountable."
"In a just world, sure. But proving financial abuse is nearly impossible. Lesson learned. Never trust a man with dimples and a trust fund."
The vulnerability in her voice stirs something protective in me. "Not all men are like that."
"No?" She meets my eyes. "What are you like, Jared Calloway?"
The question hangs between us, charged with something I can't quite name.
"Complicated," I finally say. "Probably not worth the trouble."
"I like complicated." She takes the plates I've prepared and carries them to the table. "Simple is boring."
We eat dinner by the fireplace, watching snow begin to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows. The conversation flows easier than I expected. Jennifer tells stories about her design clients, including a particularly demanding pet boutique owner who wanted "luxurious but approachable" branding for designer dog accessories.
I find myself laughing more than I have in months. There's something about her that cuts through my defenses. Somethingthat makes me want to share parts of myself I usually keep hidden.
After dinner, she insists we practice "couple behavior" to make it convincing for Aunt Mildred.
"Hold my hand," she commands, extending her palm across the couch where we're sitting.
I comply, her small hand disappearing in mine. Her skin is soft, warm. My calluses catch against her smooth palm.
"Now put your arm around me. Like couples do when they watch TV."
