Page 12 of Mountain Man's Mail Order Temptress

I kissed her once—deep and slow and probably too long for public consumption—then started the truck. We were spending our wedding night in the inn’s new honeymoon suite. She’d designed it herself. Soft linens, champagne glasses, oversized tub, and no one else allowed on that floor. And tomorrow, we’d fly out to a tiny island with no cell service and nothing to do but exist in each other’s arms for seven straight days.

No one knew she was pregnant yet. It was our secret. And I loved it. I loved that she was carrying the next chapter of our life in her body and that we got to keep it just ours for a little longer. Every time her hand drifted to her stomach when no one was looking, I felt it—that surge of awe and protectiveness and disbelief that this was really my life.

We pulled into the gravel lot in front of the inn, the porch lights glowing golden in the dusk. Our friends—those hardheaded loggers, meddling matchmakers, and mountain misfits—would show up just behind us with their terrible dance moves and embarrassing stories.

Our family.

I parked but didn’t move. Lauryn leaned over the console and kissed me, soft and lingering, her fingers curled in my shirt like she never wanted to let go.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Never been readier.”

We stepped out of the truck and walked toward the inn, side by side, hands clasped tight. Somewhere behind us, the bells on the bumper jingled as the truck settled. And just before we entered the building, she looked up at me with that smile—the one that undid me every time.

“I love you,” she said quietly.

I squeezed her hand. “I know. And I love you more.”

Because I did. Every damn day. And I always would.