1
KROSS
Iwas thirty minutes late to pick up my future wife, and I had no one to blame but myself.
My truck ate up the mountain road as I pushed the speedometer higher than I should have, cursing under my breath the whole way. The text from Sydney had come through an hour ago.
Just got to the station. Can't wait to finally meet you.
Today. She was here today.
I could've sworn she said next week. I'd read that message at least a dozen times, triple-checked the date, even asked Bobbi Ludington to look it over when she helped me set up the damn profile. Somewhere between her walking me through the app and me taking over the conversations myself, I'd screwed something up.
Typical.
The bus station was still at least thirty minutes out. Sydney’s text had arrived over an hour ago, which meant she'd been sitting there waiting while I was obliviously taking care of my Saturday morning chores. By the time I finally saw it and hauledass out the door, she'd already been alone for who knows how long. And I still had the drive ahead of me.
I took the next curve too fast and eased off the gas. Getting myself killed on the way to meet her wouldn't help anyone.
The road straightened out and I let my mind wander to how I'd ended up in this situation in the first place. Six years I'd lived in Wildwood Valley, perfectly content with my quiet life. Construction work kept me busy, my cabin kept me comfortable, and the solitude kept me sane. I'd grown up an only child, raised by a single mom who worked double shifts more often than not. Silence was familiar. Safe.
Then Keaton Sutter moved in down the road.
I didn't know his story at first—just that he was one of those guys Bobbi Ludington had matched through some mail-order bride app she’d found a while back. I'd heard the rumors, laughed them off, figured it was none of my business.
But then I started seeing him around town with his wife. The way he looked at her. The way she looked back. The easy, comfortable rhythm they had, like two people who'd found exactly where they belonged.
Something shifted in me after that. A restlessness I couldn't name. I'd drive past their place on my way home and see them on the porch, her tucked under his arm, and I'd feel this hollow ache in my chest that I couldn't explain.
I wanted that.
The realization had hit me like a two-by-four to the skull. I wanted a wife. A partner. Someone to share the silence with, or fill it up entirely. I'd been alone so long, I'd convinced myself I preferred it, but watching Keaton had cracked that lie wide open.
So I'd swallowed my pride and knocked on Bobbi's door.
She'd been thrilled, of course. Walked me through the Mountain Mates app step by step, helped me craft a profile that didn't make me sound like a caveman, and supervised my firstfew messages until she was satisfied I wouldn't scare anyone off. Then she'd handed me the reins and told me to be myself.
I thought I'd been doing fine. Sydney and I had been messaging for weeks. She was sweet, funny, honest about what she wanted—marriage, a family, a fresh start somewhere far from her hometown. I'd told her about Wildwood Valley, about my work, about the cabin I'd built with my own hands. She'd seemed genuinely interested. Excited, even.
And now she was sitting in a bus station, probably wondering if I was even real.
I pressed harder on the gas.
The station came into view fifteen minutes later—a squat brick building with a patchy parking lot and a faded sign. I pulled in crooked, not bothering to straighten out, and killed the engine. My boots hit the pavement before the truck had fully stopped rocking.
Inside, the air smelled like burnt coffee and diesel. A handful of people scattered across plastic chairs, most of them staring at phones or nodding off. I scanned the room, heart hammering, looking for the face I'd memorized from her photos.
There. A woman sitting alone near the far wall, dark hair falling past her shoulders, a bag at her feet. Same build as the woman in the pictures. Same hair color. She was facing away from me, hunched over her phone.
I crossed the room in long strides, already talking before I reached her. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were coming next week. I don't know what happened with the app, but I swear I didn't mean to leave you waiting. I got here as fast as I could?—"
The woman turned around.
Not Sydney.
She was older, maybe fifty, with sharp features and a wedding ring glinting on her left hand. She stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"I'm sorry," I said, backing away, my face burning. "I thought you were someone else."
