Wifed By The Mountain Man: A Modern Mail-Order Bride Romance (4 page)

M
y jaw is
on the floor. And with reason.

He has a freaking baby?

I mean, I understand that part of the appeal of the whole mail order bride thing is that some details can be left out of the proposition. I mean, we didn’t even know what our new spouses were going to look like, or where we were moving, or what our day-to-day life would entail.

But, um … Monique omitting the fact that Reed has a freaking child seems a bit extreme.

I mean, hello? I’m twenty-two and have my entire life ahead of me, and never once did I ever, ever,
ever
expect to move to Alaska and have a baby the summer I graduated college.

I try to breathe, to stop blinking so manically. To hear what Reed is saying. I see his mouth open and close, but of course I can’t hear a single word because his child is screaming like a lunatic.

He turns to the stainless steel double fridge and grabs a baby bottle, shaking it and inserting it in the baby’s mouth. That quiets the room really quickly.

I walk over to him—across his great room filled with gorgeous skylights and dark hard wood floors—and try to register my complete shock. “What the actual fuck, Reed?”

“Ever heard of earmuffs, woman?”

I just look at him, confused, and he points to the baby’s ear.

“You can’t swear in front of the kid.”

“Seriously?” I look at him blankly. The filthy-mouthed man I just road-fucked is telling me I can’t cuss in front of an infant.

I can’t even.

Reed paces the room, holding the baby effortlessly—and
damn
. This rugged mountain man holding a baby is making my eggs drop one by one. I swear it’s like some sort of hormone injection, watching him give this baby a bottle. My uterus is literally expanding for our unborn children—and I don’t even want kids.

Everything about this makes me dizzy. His ripped biceps, and penetrating eyes and … well, I already know what kind of cock he has. Basically, it’s all the things that make a woman baby-crazy. Or just crazy.

“You want out?” he asks, not looking at me.

“What? I—No. I just....” I’m sputtering. Because, honestly, I have a hell of a lot of questions that need answers before I can go anywhere. Also, I could use a drink. Something strong. “Do you have any alcohol?”

He doesn’t think I’m serious. He sucks in all the air from the room as he sets the quickly drained bottle on the granite countertop. He looks pissed, but I’m starting to think that’s just Reed’s version of resting bitch face. He’s grumpy, or grumpier. The only time I saw him really smile was when I was sitting on his lap, naked.

Maybe he needs more sex. But then again, he has a baby, so he had plenty of that at some point.

Which reminds me: where is this child’s mother?

He pats the baby’s back until she burps, then sets her in the swing. He turns the motor on, and it starts swaying back and forth. The swing is soft pink and covered in butterflies—and, yes, they referred to the baby as a
she
… but I still can’t believe it.

Reed has a daughter.

“Does Monique know you have a kid?”

He sets his mouth in a line—a line that could go either way—and without a word he walks over to a well-stocked bar. I lean against the kitchen island, feeling
beyond
deceived.

He grabs two glasses and pours a few inches of something amber in both of them. I watch him intently; his back is to me, and his broad shoulders tug at the seams of his flannel shirt. He’s clearly ripped. In the truck I only saw his cock; now I just want to see him completely naked. All of his skin, with his beard between my legs....

He turns back to me, not offering me a smile, but handing me the glass. It snaps me back to reality.

I mean,
Hello, Amelia, get a freaking grip
. I’m thinking about a round two with him instead of problem
numero uno
. The baby-sized problem.

“She knew.”

I snort. “Awesome. That’s so freaking awesome. I just love being lied to and manipulated into a marriage.” I take a sip of the beverage, scowl. Whiskey, neat—no, thanks. I’m a white wine or sangria sort of girl. I set the drink on the counter.

Reed takes it and pours my booze into his glass. Classy.

I roll my eyes as he tosses the whole thing back in one fell swoop.

“Did you ask?” he says, smoothly, as if that battery acid had no effect on him whatsoever.

“What? Well, no,” I huff. “I mean, that’s the sort of thing that she should have mentioned.”

He shrugs. “This arrangement is a package deal.”

“Where is her mother?” I ask.

“Dead.”

“Fuck. You’re a widower? How old is your daughter? Like, not even a year, right? And
I’m
the one you think is on the effing rebound?”

He raises his eyes, frowns. Fuck. I don’t know dead wife protocol; I just know this all got really real, really fast.

He juts up his chin, like he’s considering something—and I tell you, he may be a man of too few words, but every unenthusiastic expression he gives me makes me want him more. I want to make him happy and break down his walls. Like, desperately.

I’m assuming it’s some twisted mail order bride dynamic I’m not familiar with. But obviously I can’t for real be with this guy. He has a baby and a dead wife.

This is a whole level of adulting that I’m unprepared for.

“Would you rather champagne?” he asks, eyeing my whiskey. “I have an old bottle somewhere in the fridge. I’ll grab it for you.”

“Oh my God, Reed,” I say, covering my mouth in shock.

“What?” He spins to check on the baby in the swing—a baby who is sleeping peacefully, mind you.

“Not the baby, you idiot.”

“What, then?”

“You offered me champagne. That’s, like, the first nice thing you’ve ever done. This is groundbreaking. This is worthy of a toast.”

He shakes his head, like I don’t know a damn thing.

And maybe I don’t. I don’t really know Reed. What kind of man he is. What sort of father he is, or husband he was. All I know is that he passed Monique’s background check, and she said we’re a perfect match.

“You’re wrong,” he says flatly. “It’s not the first nice thing I’ve ever done for you.”

I scrunch up my nose. “What else?”

“Honey, I gave you your first male-induced orgasm. If we’re making toasts, let’s drink to that.”

I
pour
her champagne and another whiskey neat for myself, then grab the baby monitor. We go out to the deck looking over the lake, because I know I need to set the story straight. Hope’s mother may be dead, but I’m no widower.

Amelia and I sit on the steps leading to the dock where I keep my boat and floatplane. The water is clear, which is good after yesterday’s storm. Now it’s clear skies and bright sun, but damn, I feel cloudy. Conflicted. And I don’t like it. The last thing I want to do is talk about myself, but I know Amelia needs to know how I ended up with Hope, out here, all alone.

“Listen,” I begin, but before I can get out another word Amelia is right back to being her over-talkative and dramatic self.

“Reed, listen, I just have to say that I never would have had sex on the side of the road if I knew you were, like, a grieving widower. I mean, I get now why you’re such an ass—your heart is broken and you’re looking for a way to fix it—but sex isn’t the answer... Maybe a therapist?”

I shake my head, “You’re wrong about so many things.”

“Like what?” She says it so plainly, and not in frustration—like I’m a book to be opened, read, and critiqued. Like she actually wants to know anything I’m willing to give her. She just wants to be in the fucking loop.

“First of all, I’m not a widower.” Her mouth falls into a perfect
O
— and damn, the only thing I can think is how I’d like to fill that hole.

Instead, I focus on the story at hand, not the ways I’d like to take her later. “I dated her mom, Kara, briefly … almost two years ago now. She got pregnant, she told me she’d lost the baby, and she took off. Never heard from her again—she was batshit, to be honest, and I wasn’t sorry to see her go.”

I look over to see how she’s taking this story, and smirk, liking the way she deals with her shock. She’s full-on guzzling the champagne. Not exactly a mother-of-the-year move—but, then again, she never thought she was coming here to be a mom.

She motions for me to keep talking as she pours another glass.

“But then, more than a year goes by. I never think of her again, until a social worker calls telling me Kara died suddenly and she had no family—and I was listed as the father on the birth certificate. She came the next day with Hope. One look at her, and it was clear she was my kid. Same eyes, same nose. Turns out, same fucking DNA.”

Amelia reaches for my hand. I let her take it, maybe because it feels good to have something to hold on to. The truth is, the past three months have been really fucking hard.

“So,” she says, “a baby was literally dropped off at your door.”

“Yeah. And I don’t have family either, never did. I grew up in foster care—fucking sob story if there ever was one, but damn, I wouldn’t let that happen to Hope. Still, it would be easier if I didn’t live out here, on my own.”

“Did you consider moving to a bigger city? And hiring help to care for your daughter?”

I give Amelia a sidelong glance. “I grew up in the system. I don’t want anyone to take care of my daughter besides her parents.”

“That’s admirable, but ....”

“But what?” I’ve thought it through. I know what I am choosing.

“But day care is a great place for kids. It’s safe and nurturing, and I’m not saying that just because my sister and I spent our childhoods in daycare. Our grandma raised us, but she had to work. It seems like going with Monique’s service is kind of a drastic choice, if you’re looking for a babysitter.”

“Not a babysitter. Hope needs a mother. I want more for her than I had.”

“I didn’t have a mother, and I’m fine.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t, but can’t you understand me wanting more for her than I had?”

Amelia purses her lips, looks like she’s thinking. “I do understand that.”

“Good. Because using Monique’s agency was brilliant.”

“You’re modest, too.”

This girl is trouble. “Listen, I told Monique exactly what I needed in a bride. I wasn’t gonna put myself on some dating site to look for a gold digger. I avoided all of that by having her find me the perfect woman.”

“Me? You think I’m your perfect woman?” She shakes her head, pulling her hand back, and she stares at her long, fake fingernails.

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Look, you’re fucking gorgeous—but, honey, in these heels and push-up bra, I do wonder if you can hack it out here in the middle of nowhere. I wonder what Monique was thinking, honestly. Do you even want to have a kid?”

“I mean ... I guess eventually I want to be a mother. But now? I’ve never considered it. I certainly didn’t say anything about it on my application or interview.”

“I don’t want a bride who doesn’t want to raise Hope. That’s why I put the wedding off. I want to make sure whoever I marry is ready to commit to us both.”

“No pressure.” She finishes her champagne. “I don’t know anything about babies.”

“Me either,” I tell her.

“Whatever. You were a natural in there with her.”

“Steep learning curve. But honest, I don’t want to be a stay-at-home dad. I need a woman who’s ready to do this on her own, full-time.”

“What do you do all day?”

I shrug. “Fish, trap, hunt.”

“Basically play all day, every day. And having a kid is cramping your style?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“You are such a dick, Reed,” she says, her face falling. But then she sighs, as if wrapping her mind around the concept, at least.

I feel bad; I do. For some reason, I don’t want to disappoint this stranger, but I also don’t want to get caught up in a guilt trip. That’s why I don’t want a wife. I’m looking for someone for Hope. Not me.

The baby monitor starts screeching. Hope’s up.

Amelia lets out a long sigh and stands, reaching for my hand.

“Come, show me your life, Reed,” she says, surprising me. “Show me what it means to be your baby’s mama, because God knows this is a tough sell.”

H
ope doesn’t stop fussing
for the rest of the evening. I follow Reed around in a weird, sort of shadowy way as he feeds her peas and carrots, as he gives her a bath. As he gives her a bottle. We don’t talk, mostly because I’m trying to absorb the shock of everything I’ve just seen and heard.

I mean, it’s pretty intense, all of it.

Eventually, he grabs a pizza from the freezer and throws it in the oven, then takes Hope upstairs to get into pajamas. I excuse myself and go into the bathroom with my cell phone. Magically, I’m actually able to place a call to Delta, but it goes straight to voice mail. Same thing with Everly.

I really wanted their opinion on whether or not I should take the first plane out of here and go move into my sister Francis’s house—in freaking Omaha, Nebraska—and try to make a life for myself in the cramped two-bedroom house that she’s currently residing in, with my Grandma and their combined nine cats.

I’m allergic to cats. Like, badly.

Which is why I haven’t visited in two years. As a college student, the tickets to visit would have cost a fortune I didn’t have, and then I’d have needed to stay in a motel the entire time.

And whenever I mention her coming out to visit me, she says Grandma can’t be left alone—which I get. They’re my family, but none of us are close, so we’ve never made the extra effort to see one another.

This trip to rural Alaska is the biggest adventure I’ve had in my life.

But right now I really wish I had more family—like, any family. And maybe going home to strangers is better than sleeping with them.

I call Francis. Yes, it’s a desperate move, but I’m pretty much at a low point. I’m in the bathroom at a stranger’s house, debating the merits of being his wife.

Francis picks up right away. “Amelia?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Is this a good time?”

“It’s late. After midnight.”

“Oh. Right.” I forgot about the time difference. “I just wanted to call and tell you I landed, and I’m here at Reed’s house … in case you were wondering if someone had kidnapped me upon arrival.”

She doesn’t laugh. “Where are you?”

“I told you last week—that I was moving to Alaska. With my ... fiancé?”

I may have lied and told her we met at college, and he was my boyfriend, and we had gotten engaged. I may have left out the hired-bride part.

“Engaged? Alaska? I don’t remember any of this.”

“Oh, well, you told me you were watching Game of Thrones.”

She laughs. “Then I didn’t listen to what you said. I don’t have DVR, so I can’t pause anything.”

“Oh.” What the hell do I say to this? “Okay, well. I’m safe and—”

“Okay, well, message me on Facebook if you want.”

“Will do.”

She hangs up without goodbye. Really? This is my family? This is what I have on Planet Earth?

I stand outside Hope’s nursery. Well, I call it a nursery, but it mostly looks like someone went shopping on Amazon for the most random baby things, without any thought. There’s a half-assembled stroller, a pile of dirty burp rags, and a changing table with a navy blue sheet on it.

I mean, the crib is put together, so that’s good, but the room is empty except for a few baskets of clothes. A giant box of diapers has been ripped open, and a box of baby wipes sits next to it. It’s not cute or cozy at all. It’s depressing as hell, to be honest. The rest of Reed’s house is divine—all rich woods and leather furniture. This room, though, is sad.

Watching Reed change Hope’s diaper, I feel my ovaries just about explode. Holy cow, he is sexy with this kid. He kisses her belly, sings her a nonsense song, and stretches her arms as she giggles. And, okay, I may not want a kid, but a baby cooing for her father is pretty much adorbs.

“You book a plane out of here?” he asks, his back still to me, as he snaps a sleeper on Hope.

“What?” I didn’t even know he knew I was standing here. “Um. No. I was talking to my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Reed picks Hope up, and she beams up at him like he’s God’s gift to women—which, besides the fact he’s an asshole, he kind of is. “Can you turn on the mobile over her crib?”

I walk into the room and do as he asks, smoothing out the blanket in the crib. “Yeah, her name’s Francis. But she isn’t really ... available.”

He sets Hope down, then pats her belly, turns on the baby monitor, and turns off the overhead light.

We step into the hallway and he softly closes her door.

“That was easy,” I say. “Is it always like that?”

“Oh, she’s great sometimes. Maybe you forgot her meltdown when we got here today?”

“I thought that might have been a one-time thing.”

“Nope, that’s a Hope thing.”

We walk down to the kitchen, and he pulls the pizza out of the oven. It smells like cardboard, but I’m starved.

“Beer?” he asks.

“Sure.” I find the pizza cutter in a drawer, and slice the pizza as he grabs the drinks. Sitting on barstools, we help ourselves to hot slices. “So she sleeps all night, then?”

“Eh,” Reed shrugs unconvincingly. “Some nights. But others ... not so well.”

“And you’ve been doing this all alone, everyday?”

“The social worker came by a few times the first month to make sure everything was cool. And Lottie comes over, because she’s bored and nosy.”

I don’t say that I’m impressed, but I am. For a man who has no experience with babies, all alone, with no support, he’s keeping his shit together pretty well.

Maybe that’s why he seems so tense.

“You’re doing good,” I tell him. “She seems pretty perfect for a nine-month-old.”

“I don’t know how good I’m doing. I bought a whole shit-ton of books on taking care of babies. But every time I go to read one I fall asleep.”

I smile softly, finding his ability to take this whole thing in stride sexy as hell. And even if he’s an ass ... he’s a father, and not shirking that responsibility.

“I bet a lot of it’s about instinct.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “It’s just not what I wanted, you know. Hope’s amazing ... but like, I sometimes wonder how this is my actual life.”

I can’t help but snort. “No shit, Reed.”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “Fuck, I know. You didn’t want this gig either. Still don’t.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’ve seen it in your eyes all night, Amelia. You don’t want to be here. This is more than you bargained for.”

“I think maybe I just need a good night’s sleep, a chance to get my head on straight.”

“Right,” Reed says, wiping his hands with a napkin. “I’ll take your bags to the guest room.”

“The guest room?” My eyebrows raise in surprise. I guess I assumed he’d try to sleep with me again. Not that it would be against my will—I’ve been imagining his hands all over me the entire evening.

“I figure you can stay there until you decide what you want.”

“Right. Of course. That makes sense.” I smile tightly, wondering if he knows how bad I want him, and if this is all a part of his master plan of seducing me to be Hope’s mom. Make me so flipping horny that I’ll agree to anything if it means I can have him again.

How desperate am I, that my first thought revolves around the fact that his plan might actually work?

It doesn’t matter. He carries my bags into the guest room and leaves without another word.

But I swear he gives me a solid once over as he leaves. And I swear even harder that he adjusted his cock as he walked away.

Maybe he’s as horny for me as I am for him.