Page 8 of Unwrapped By the Grumpy Mountain Man
As beautiful as this golden angel is, self-preservation has me slamming the door on whatever it is she’s forcing me to feel. Literally.
“Not interested,” I grunt, closing the door on her widening eyes. I ignore the ache that shoots through my chest.
I turn to finish prepping lunch.Knock knock.
Groaning at my feet, my jaw ticks as I pivot and open the door again.
“Hi,” she breathes out, and her voice’s melodic sweetness, for some reason, irritates me more. “I saw your ad,” she rushes.
“Wrong house,” I repeat and close the door.
I need to put distance between whatever that was. Now.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl at her insistent attempt as once again, she knocks. “Relentless angel.”
When I open it a third time, she sticks her hiking boot inside to block the door from closing. I raise my brows, surprised by her determination.
“Please, hear me out,” she pleads sweetly, but underneath, I catch the frustration. I almost smile.
“I know you’re relying on the official process from the agency, but I am absolutely sure I’m the best candidate.”
I cross my arms. Maybe she’s high on something. She must be because she’s speaking absolute nonsense.
“Goldie, I have not a damn clue what you’re talking about.” I peek around her and notice an old, beat-up Ford. “Are you okay to drive?”
Her full, arched brows frown. “Yes, of course. I have an excellent driving record. I can provide documentation, references, anything you need.” She looks down at what she’s carrying. “Hungry? Fresh, homemade chicken pot pie,” she lifts the dish. “And, tis the season, right? Never too early for my frosted brownie Christmas cookies.” The other plate is covered with plastic wrap.
My stomach, the traitor, chooses that moment to make it known I haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast. Yesterday.
But, no. I have shit to do. And this angel has the wrong house.
“I think you have me mistaken for someone el–”
“Hudson Wilder, currently looking for a mail-order bride through Ever After Mountain Match, and I know I’m notdoing this through the right channels, but I wanted to discuss possibly–”
I raise my hand. “Wait.” The back of my mind tingles. “The hell did you say?”
Her body betrays her confident stance with a full-body shiver, and I remember, it’s almost fucking winter, high altitude, making the cold sharper.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. It’s cold. You’re shivering. Come inside.”
Against my better judgment, I open the door, letting her in. Her face breaks out into a smile so bright, the golden rays of the sun can’t compete. She bounces inside, using each foot to pull off her boots at the door. Closing it, I immediately take the dishes out of her hands.
“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly, her voice delicate.
I grunt in acknowledgment, watching her shrug off the coat and scarf, revealing more mouth-watering curves straining against those damn overalls. Possibly the least sexy outfit, some might say, but this bright angel could walk around in a burlap sack and heads would turn.
She fluffs that short, golden blonde hair, then takes the dishes from my hand. “Kitchen?” she asks, already heading further inside the house.
Her bright blue eyes take in every inch I meticulously designed with my girls in mind. She finds the kitchen and smiles wider, if that’s possible, setting the plates down on the island counter.
“This house is absolutely stunning, Mr. Wilder.
“Hudson,” I rasp.
She’s young. I don’t know how old, but too damn young for me to be feeling this pull. Yet, hearing her call me so formally only makes me feel older. I want to cut that divide as much as possible.
“Hudson,” she nods. “I’m Violet. Violet Huxley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mind if I serve you a plate?”
