Page 32 of The Mountain Man's Fake Christmas Bride
"Isn't it? You've barely unpacked in town and you're already looking for reasons this won't work. Already planning your exit strategy."
The accusation stings because there's a grain of truth in it. I have been keeping one foot out the door, protecting myself from potential heartbreak.
"I'm just being realistic," I say defensively. "People don't fall in love in a few weeks and live happily ever after."
"Some do." He stands, putting physical distance between us. "But clearly you're not one of them."
"Jared, wait." I scramble off the bed, reaching for him. "That's not what I'm saying. I love you. I want to be with you. I'm just scared it's all happening so fast."
"Then we'll slow down." His voice is cool now, controlled. The walls I've spent the past two weeks breaking through are visibly reconstructing themselves. "Take some time to think about what you want."
"What I want is you."
"Until you don't." The words are quiet, almost to himself. "Until the novelty wears off and you realize you're stuck on a mountain with a scarred ex-firefighter who doesn't know how to be what you need."
"That's not true." Frustration builds in my chest. "You're putting words in my mouth. Creating problems that don't exist."
"Aren't they?" He runs a hand through his hair. "You just said yourself this might be holiday magic. Not real."
"I said I was afraid it might be. There's a difference." I step closer, trying to bridge the growing gap between us. "Jared, please. Don't shut down on me."
He looks at me for a long moment, something sad and resigned in his eyes. "I think we both need some space to think. I'll sleep downstairs tonight."
"That's not what I want."
"Maybe it's what we need." He moves toward the door. "Goodnight, Jen."
Before I can respond, he's gone, the door closing with a quiet click that feels more final than a slam.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, tears burning behind my eyes. What just happened? How did a conversation about our future turn into this sudden rift? One minute he was asking me to stay, the next he was walking away.
Fuck it to hell.I pushed at his deepest insecurity, his fear that he's not enough, that no one would choose to stay with him long term. And he retreated, just as he's done for the past three years whenever vulnerability threatened.
Pulling on my robe, I move to the window, staring out at the snow-covered mountains bathed in moonlight. The view that felt so magical just days ago now seems cold and distant. Like the man downstairs who's building walls against me even as I try to tear them down.
"Stupid, Jen," I mutter to myself. "So stupid."
Because the truth is, I do want to stay. I do believe in what we've found together, fast as it's happened. But my own fears got in the way. My own wounds from Tyler made me question something that feels more right than anything in my life.
And now I may have ruined it before it really had a chance to begin.
CHAPTER NINE
JARED
The couch feels wrong. Too short. Too empty. I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows from the dying fire dance across the exposed beams. Sleep refuses to come, my mind replaying our argument in endless loops.
Until the novelty wears off and you realize you're stuck on a mountain with a scarred ex-firefighter who doesn't know how to be what you need.
My own words echo in my head, revealing more truth than I intended. That's the real fear, isn't it? Not that Jennifer will leave, but that she should leave. That I'm not enough for her. That she deserves better than a broken man hiding from the world.
I rub my face, feeling the rough edges of my scar beneath my fingertips. Jennifer never shies away from touching it. Never pretends it's not there. She traces it with the same tenderness she shows the rest of me. Like it's just another part of who I am rather than a reminder of what I lost.
And how did I repay that acceptance? By walking away the moment she expressed her very reasonable fears.
"Idiot," I mutter to the empty room.
A soft noise from the kitchen startles me. I sit up, squinting through the darkness to see Aunt Mildred in her robe and slippers, filling the electric kettle.
