Page 11 of Unwrapped By the Grumpy Mountain Man
I lightly bumped my hip against her. “Behave,” I grunt quietly.
“Cookies!” Lucy’s already in the kitchen and clearly found Violet’s baked treats.
“Don’t you dare, Lucy Samantha Wilder,” I say, knowing she might already be halfway to stuffing three into her mouth. “You have to eat dinner later.”
“Have you girls eaten lunch yet?” Violet asks.
“It’s like four,” Silvie sasses. “We ate hours ago. Obviously.”
“Silvie,” I reprimand.
Rolling her eyes, she mumbles under her breath, “I’m gonna make sure Lucy isn’t inhaling whatever cookies she’s found.”
She walks off to once again mother her younger sister, which grates me. She’s ten. Her instincts shouldn’t drive her to motherly instincts already, so young. Fucking Kristy.
Violet kneels in front of my Angie, who has her long, straight, light brown hair intricately braided in pigtails. Violet smiles sweetly.
“Your braids are so cool. Did you do them yourself?” she asks.
Angie looks up at me for permission. I rest my hand on the back of her head and nod. She looks back at Violet and gives a small smile, nodding at her response.
“I wear my hair so short now, I never know what to do with it. It’s just easier,” she giggles. Damn it, her sounds are like crack.
“You could braid the front like a headband. It would look so pretty. Dutch braids are my favorite,” Angie answers softly.
“Maybe one day you could show me?” Violet’s blue gaze looks up at me, now she seeks permission.
I feel trapped. Do I disappoint my girl and say, No? Do I lie just not to create drama and get this beautiful woman out of my home before my girls fall in love with her? How could they not? She’s every antithesis of their mother. The girls love their mother, of course. But they’ve never known the loving actions, words, nature of a nurturer, which Kristy just doesn’t have in her. Violet, on the other hand, has it in spades.
This would be absurd. Marrying a stranger. A woman half my age, at that. And she’s in it for the money. What if she’s lying about the house and just wants to fuel some addictive behavior? I hear it before I think it. I know I’m deflecting. Kristy messed with my trust in women. But the girls are too important to take risks.
“We’ll see, baby,” I tell Angie. “Why don’t you do me a favor and make sure Silvie doesn’t kill your little sister?” I ask.
Angie giggles quietly, then heads to the kitchen. Once they’re out of hearing range, I lead Violet to the door.
“I’ll have your dishes returned as soon as I can. I have the girls this weekend, so I need to focus on that. Again, I’m sorry you thought the ad was real. It’s not. Please, drive safely. And thank you for the pie. And cookies.”
Her eyes dim at the dismissal, but a hint of fire sparks, too. “I’d love to discuss this further. If you need a wife to legally get your girls, I’d like to help.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t even know why I need to win them back. What if I’m a monster and you should be fighting to have the girls stay with their mother?” I challenge.
Her piercing gaze doesn’t leave my deep brown stare. “Two minutes, watching you with them, and how they respond to you? You love them. Unconditionally. A woman knows,” she sayssoftly. “I don’t know your story or theirs. But I’d like to. Please,” she reaches out and squeezes my forearm.
The sharp zap of electricity at her touch has me pull an unexpected breath. Her eyes flare differently than I’ve seen today. She hasn’t let go. She smiles softly, finally releases me, and walks out to her beat-up, mustard yellow Ford. I stand on the front porch and watch her wave as she pulls away toward the main path.
This string strains with the distant. Unconsciously, I rub my chest hard, wanting this bizarre pull to break. Once her brake lights disappear, I get back inside to the beautiful chaos of having my girls home.
Before meeting them in the kitchen, I dial Sanford.
“The fuck did you do?” I bark quietly when he answers.
CHAPTER FOUR
VIOLET
Sweet Pines Bakery smells like heaven and Christmas had a baby. Cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly baked bread swirl in the air as I push open the door, the little bell jingling merrily above my head. The cozy shop is already decked out for the season with twinkling lights strung across the ceiling and a small Christmas tree twinkling in the corner. Miss Dorothy never does anything halfway when it comes to holidays.
I stamp the snow off my boots and unwind my scarf, grateful for the rush of warmth after the biting December chill. My mind is still replaying yesterday's encounter with Hudson Wilder on loop. Those dark eyes. That deep voice. The way his massive frame filled the doorway of his mountain home. And those girls, so different from each other but each carrying pieces of their father in their mannerisms.
