Page 7 of Unwrapped By the Grumpy Mountain Man
My heart pounds as I open it, scanning the details of my potential husband. According to the email, his name is Hudson Wilder, and he’s from right here in Eden Ridge.
I google him immediately, finding nothing but a few mentions in the Eden Ridge local paper about his work at Hunter & Co. Lumber. No social media presence, no digital footprint beyond the basics. Either he's intensely private or hiding something.
Or both.
The more I think about it, the more questions arise. Why would a man pay fifty thousand dollars for a wife? What's his angle? Is he a convicted felon? A psychopath? A serial…
A memory hits me like a boulder of a piece I did for the paper three years ago. A man, ex-MC if I recall, was new in town, and Sheriff Jones was sure he was going to be trouble. But all I could find about the reclusive newcomer was that he wanted to be alone and moved far up into the mountains.
What was his name?My fingers fly across the keyboard searching for my notes.It couldn’t possibly be him, could it?Here it is…Holy fuck on a cracker.It’s him. I know where he lives. I could go there tomorrow. Show him he doesn’t need an agency because I could make the perfect wife.
Am I really considering this?
The practical side of my brain screams that this is insane. The desperate part whispers that it might be my only option to saveMom's house. And the curious journalist in me wants to know what kind of man resorts to buying a wife in the twenty-first century.
I glance at the mortgage notice again, calculating how long until the bank forecloses. Not long enough to save it through conventional means.
Unconventional times call for unconventional measures.
I hold off on typing a response, then close my laptop with finality. Whatever happens tomorrow, nothing will be the same afterward. I'm either about to write the most immersive piece of journalism in Eden Ridge history or make the biggest mistake of my life.
Or both.
I take a deep breath, my gaze landing on the framed photo of Mom on the wall. Her smile encourages me, just as it always has.
"I'm going to save our home," I whisper to her. "Whatever it takes."
Outside, snow begins to fall, dusting the windowpanes with delicate crystals. Christmas lights twinkle on neighboring houses, a reminder that the holiday season is upon us. A season of miracles, they say.
I'm counting on one.
CHAPTER THREE
HUDSON
Istand in the foyer of the house and get as dry as I can before I traipse around. The first weekend in December brings a chill sheet of rain that feels like a million icy razors piercing your skin. Can’t safely harvest trees in this, so I’m home early, which works great. I can prepare for the girls to arrive tonight.
I shook my head on the way home, seeing the Christmas lights and decorations already lining people’s roofs and porches. Thanksgiving was literally days ago. They don’t waste time.
Sighing, I rub my fingers through my wet hair, slicking it back. It’s getting long, hanging at the nape of my neck. I focus back on the upcoming holiday.I should get a plan going for the girls..Once Lucy sees other folks’ homes decorated, I won’t hear the end of it.
I’m fixing a quick late lunch when three sharp knocks sound from the front door.
“The fuck?” I mumble.
The girls aren’t due till later. And neither of their little fists knocks in that manner. I don’t have friends. I don’t socializeunless I have to, which is mostly for work. I’m far up the mountain, so you wouldn’t be here unless it’s on purpose.
Narrowing my eyes, I approach cautiously, straining to pick up on any familiar tells. My gut clenches at the intrusive idea.What if Black Feral is here to give me shit?Just when I gained more access to the girls.Is this Kristy pulling some shit?
At the door, I look through the peephole. My body jerks back. The last thing I expect to see is a bright face, beautiful features, short, shoulder-length blonde-haired woman. What’s a woman–a young woman–doing at my door? Maybe she went hiking and got lost?
Hiking in winter, Hud?For fuck’s sake.
I pull open the door and have a full-bodied reaction. The quick peek through the peephole did not do her justice. Face-to-face, I’m fighting baser needs. She’s got curves that are perfectly wrapped in her simple, brown overalls. Her chest and hips, fighting against the corduroy hold. Even with the coat and scarf, her cleavage is pushed over the neckline of her beige shirt underneath.
Full peach lips, lightly glossed with something, big blue eyes, and flushed, rosy cheeks and nose from the chill.Who the fuck is this angel?
My eyes flick down to the pie and the covered tray of cookies she’s carrying. Solicitor? I’m not buying cookies. Christmas isn’t even here. Damn. Let us settle into it being December for a second.
