“Hey,” I protest. “Our cabin had character.”
“It had structural issues.”
“It was charming.”
“It was leaning.”
I grin. “Makes me wonder if your real cabin doesn’t lean a little too.”
He opens his mouth to reply, then stops. Narrows his eyes at me instead. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“Not with you,” I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze lingers on my face, something unreadable there. Heat rises in my cheeks. I busily cut into my chicken, trying not to overanalyze the way my heart is suddenly doing tiny cartwheels.
After a few minutes of quiet eating, I set my fork down and fold my hands in my lap. The words are there, crowding my throat, and if I don’t say them now, I’ll chicken out.
“So,” I begin carefully, “can I ask you something without you going full Grinch on me?”
His brow lifts. “Define ‘full Grinch.’”
“You know.” I gesture vaguely. “The whole … mountain hermit, growly, ‘people are terrible and I only talk to trees’ vibe.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t talk to trees.”
“That’s the part you’re arguing with?”
He gives me a look that says, stop making me smile in public. I lean closer, resting my forearms on the table. “All this time, you’ve lived up there, mostly on your own. You avoid town stuff. You act like you hate everyone.” I pause and soften my tone. “So why this? Why now? Why agree to be paraded around as a holiday groom?”
His jaw flexes. For a moment, I worry I pushed too hard. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s setting something heavy down. His gaze drops to the table, then lifts to the fire, watching the flames dance.
“It wasn’t my idea,” he says finally.
I don’t say anything. I just wait. He drags a hand over his beard. “I’ve had a petition and a lawsuit with the town over the property lines.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’ve heard … things.”
“Most of them probably wrong,” he mutters. “My granddad settled that land before half of Cady Springs was even a cluster of cabins. We had markers. Old ones. Over time, things shifted. The town filed new maps, someone else claimed a slice that was never theirs … and when I inherited what was left, I realized what we’d lost.”
There’s a roughness in his voice I haven’t heard before. A tired edge.
“Why is that piece so important?” I ask.
He glances at me. There’s a memory in his eyes now, something older than both of us.
“My grandfather built his first cabin there,” he says. “Before the one I live in now. Just a one-room shack, really. No insulation. No proper roof. But he always said that patch of ground was where he learned how to survive. Where he decided who he wanted to be.” His throat works. “My dad took me there when I was a kid. Told me we keep it in the family. That some things don’t get bought or traded. They just … stay.”
My chest aches.
“So when I found out the town’s fancy new maps had swallowed that strip into ‘public land,’ I fought it,” he continues. “Lawyers. Fees. Meetings with people who have never touched a tree on that mountain but suddenly think they know where history starts and ends.”
He shakes his head, frustration edging his words.
“And Janice?” I prompt gently.
His mouth flattens. “Janice came to me before the auction. and made me an offer if I would be what she called “the main draw”. She needed more bachelors. In exchange, she offered to settle and sign off on the survey that favors my side. Confirm the boundary markers. I play along for a week, put on a smile, let everyone have their holiday circus, and the land is officially mine again.”
I let that sink in.
