I don’t rush. I don’t need to. I’ve already checked the tree line twice, already clocked the tire tracks that don’t belong up here, already made sure the shotgun is where it’s supposed to be and the locks are solid. The ad wasn’t a joke. It was a line in the sand. If someone crossed it, they’d find out real fast what happens on my land.
I reach for the handle, then pause with my palm flat against the wood.
And then I smell it.
Chocolate.
Not the artificial, candy-aisle kind. Real. Dark. Warm. Like it clung to skin and hair and clothes and made a person smell like trouble and temptation.
My chest goes tight.
I open the door.
Ellie James stands on my doorstep with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a stare that’s too bright for the way her hands are shaking. Wind lifts a few strands of hair out of hermessy bun and throws them across her cheek. She looks like she drove too fast and thought too hard and refused to cry the whole way here.
Her eyes meet mine.
And for a second, neither of us moves.
“Wyatt,” she says, like she’s testing the name. Like she’s surprised it still works in her mouth.
I don’t answer right away. I’ve known Ellie since she was all knees and opinions, since Wade brought her around the station to show her off like a badge and told every guy there to keep his eyes to himself. Back then, I laughed and promised I would.
I kept that promise.
Even when she got older. Even when she got prettier. Even when she started walking into rooms like she owned the oxygen and my chest tightened every damn time.
I kept it.
And now she’s on my porch because she answered my ad.
Her gaze drops to my bare forearms, then snaps back to my face like she caught herself doing it.
Good.
She’s not the only one who’s going to struggle.
“You’re early,” I manage, because my brain wants something neutral to cling to.
She blinks. “I’m… what?”
“Forty minutes,” I say, nodding once. “You beat my estimate.”
Her mouth pulls into a tight line. “Sorry. Next time I’ll schedule my crisis better.”
There it is. The bite. The Ellie I remember. The one who uses sarcasm like armor.
It hits me low in the gut anyway.
“Come in,” I say, stepping back.
She hesitates on the threshold. Not because she’s shy. Because she’s smart. Because she knows what this looks like—walking into a mountain cabin alone with a man who posted a bride ad.
Her chin lifts a fraction. “You’re not going to murder me, right?”
I look her over slowly, deliberately. The backpack. The tight grip on the strap. The way she’s bracing like she expects the ground to shift under her.
Then I meet her eyes. “Not unless you give me a reason.”
