Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I grip the wheel tighter and drive.
The road along the Phantom River is a winding ribbon of snow-dusted asphalt that seems to disappear into the trees. The farther up Devil’s Peak I drive, the quieter it gets. Even the sound of the tires on the road feels muted, swallowed by the wilderness.
By the time I spot the mailbox with the Stevens name painted on it in bold letters, my palms are damp against the steering wheel. A long dirt driveway stretches ahead, bordered by towering pines. My heart thuds heavily in my chest as I turn onto it, the car bumping over the uneven terrain.
And then I see it.
The cabin is bigger than I expected, a rugged structure overlooking the river made of dark logs with a wide front porch and a chimney puffing faint wisps of smoke. There’s a battered truck parked out front, a woodpile neatly stacked beside the house, and—
“Bear.”
Chapter Three
Grady
Bear’s bark is the first sign she’s here.
I glance toward the window, catching a glimpse of her car through the frosted pane. My chest tightens, an odd mix of expectation and unease coiling in my gut. I set down the ax I was sharpening, wiping my hands on a rag as I move toward the door. My boots echo heavily against the wooden floorboards.
When I swing the door open, my stomach bottoms out.
It’s her.
The woman from the bakery. The one who laughed so easily when Bear stole her cookies. The one with the kind eyes and curves that made my pulse kick.
Sarah.
She stands on my porch with a single suitcase in hand, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and her blonde hair tucked under a baby blue knit hat. Her lips part in surprise when she sees me, a soft gasp escaping before she quickly schools her expression.
“You,” I manage, my voice rougher than usual.
Her brows knit together. “...Grady?”
I nod, gripping the doorframe like it might steady me. “You’re... my mail-order bride?”
Her cheeks darken to a deep rose, and she shifts nervously on her feet. “I didn’t know it was you,” she blurts, her words tumbling out in a rush. “When I answered the ad, I didn’t realize... I mean, I didn’t put two and two together after the bakery until... well, now.”
Bear chooses that moment to bound up to her, tail wagging like she’s his long-lost best friend. He nudges her hand with his nose, and she laughs softly, reaching down to scratch his ears. The sound sends a jolt straight through me. Damn it. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
“Come inside,” I say gruffly, stepping aside to let her in. The words come out harsher than I intend, but it’s the only way to cover the confusion—and attraction—coursing through me.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, lifting her suitcase over the threshold and into the warmth of the cabin.
The door closes behind us with a heavy thunk, and Sarah lingers by the entrance, taking in her surroundings. My cabin is simple: a stone fireplace, rough-hewn furniture, and shelves lined with tools and books. It’s no place for someone like her—soft, bright, and full of life.
“You can set your bag down there,” I say, motioning toward the wall. She does as I say, then turns to face me, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
“I should explain,” she starts, her voice hesitant but steady. “When I moved here last week, I was looking for a fresh start. I saw the magazine in the motel lobby, and your ad just... spoke to me. It sounded like the kind of stability I need right now.”
“Stability,” I repeat, letting the word roll around in my head. I think about her smile at the bakery, the way it lit up her face, and I wonder what could’ve driven her to seek out something so... detached.
She nods, a shadow crossing her expression. “I know it’s unconventional, but I don’t have many options. My past...” She trails off, shaking her head. “It’s complicated.”
Complicated. That’s an understatement. I piece together what my friends mentioned at the Devil’s Brew yesterday—the rumors about the new teacher trying to escape a tarnished reputation in the city. Anger flares in my chest, hot and sharp. She doesn’t deserve that.
But I don’t press her. Not yet.
“I get it,” I say simply. “Life throws curveballs.”
She blinks, surprised by my lack of prying, then offers a tentative smile. “Thank you for understanding.”
I grunt in response, turning toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”
She hesitates. “A little.”
“Stew’s on the stove,” I say, gesturing toward the pot. “Help yourself.”
As she moves toward the kitchen, I steal a glance at her, my gaze lingering on the curve of her waist and the way she moves with a quiet grace. I grit my teeth, turning away before my thoughts can spiral. This is supposed to be practical. Platonic. A business arrangement.