Page 8 of My Obsessive Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #3)

Three Years Later

The late summer breeze carries the scent of pine and wildflowers across the porch, rustling the pages of my book. I've read the same paragraph three times now, distracted by the flutter of movement inside my belly—tiny feet or elbows or knees, I can't be sure which, pressing against my ribs.

I rest my hand over the spot, feeling the contours of our daughter through the stretched fabric of my sundress.

"Settle down in there, little one," I murmur. "Your mama's trying to read."

The porch swing creaks gently as I shift, seeking a more comfortable position.

At eight months pregnant, comfort is relative—a moving target that changes hourly.

Still, I wouldn't trade this fullness, this rounded heaviness, for anything in the world.

My body feels powerful, purposeful, exactly as it should be.

The cabin spreads out behind me, no longer just grandma Martha's place or even just mine—but ours.

Paul and I have spent the past three years breathing new life into these old logs, expanding rooms, adding skylights, turning the treasure room into a shared office where I run my appraisal business and Paul designs his custom furniture.

From my seat on the porch, I can see the workshop he built last summer, its doors wide open to catch the mountain air as he works.

My laptop sits closed on the table beside me, next to a half-empty mug of peppermint tea.

Three client emails answered, two valuations completed, one auction house consulted—all before lunch.

The Carson-Mullins Appraisal and Design logo glows faintly on the lid—a simple emblem of how seamlessly our separate lives have intertwined.

The screen door creaks, and I look up to see Paul emerging from the cabin, carefully maneuvering something large and covered with a sheet. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as he navigates the doorway.

Even after all these years, the sight of him still makes my heart skip—those broad shoulders, strong hands, the way his dark hair curls slightly at his neck where it needs cutting.

"Close your eyes," he instructs, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Paul Mullins, what have you done now?" I ask, but I comply, letting my eyelids fall shut. I hear the soft thud of something being set down on the porch boards, then the warmth of his presence as he kneels beside the swing.

"Okay," he says. "Look."

I open my eyes to find him watching my face, eager for my reaction. My gaze shifts to what he's brought out—and my breath catches.

It's a cradle, the sheet now pulled away to reveal gleaming wood polished to a soft luster.

But calling it merely a cradle feels inadequate.

It's a work of art—cherry wood carved with intricate mountain landscapes that flow seamlessly around its curved edges.

The rockers underneath are perfectly proportioned, and I can already imagine the gentle motion they'll provide.

Small forest creatures—a fox, a bear cub, a family of deer—are carved into the headboard, watching over the space where our daughter will sleep.

"Paul," I whisper, reaching out to trace the polished wood with my fingertips. "It's exquisite."

"Three different types of wood," he explains, his voice carrying that quiet pride I've come to recognize. "Cherry for the frame, maple for the inlays, walnut for the darker accents. I've been working on it for months, whenever you were busy with clients."

"That's why you've been locking the workshop?" I ask, understanding dawning.

He nods, moving to kneel directly in front of me. His hands, always so capable and strong, come to rest on either side of my rounded belly. "I wanted it to be perfect. For her."

As if responding to her father's voice, the baby gives a forceful kick right against his palm. Paul's face lights up with the same wonder it showed the first time he felt her move.

"Strong," he says, rubbing the spot gently. "Like her mother."

"Stubborn," I counter with a smile. "Like her father."

"Determined," he corrects, leaning forward to press a kiss to my belly. "There's a difference."

I laugh, running my fingers through his hair. "Is that what you call it when you spent three days searching the forest for exactly the right piece of burl wood for our dining table?"

"That was craftsmanship," he defends, but his eyes crinkle with humor. "Speaking of which, did you eat the lunch I left for you?"

"I did," I nod. "And then I ate yours too. And then I may have made a peanut butter and pickle sandwich."

He grimaces. "That's still happening, huh?"

"Judge all you want, mountain man, but your daughter has specific tastes." I shift again, making room for him on the swing beside me. "Besides, you're the one who put pickle juice in the refrigerator door last week 'for easy access.'"

He settles next to me, his arm around my shoulders, fingers absently stroking my arm. "I'm just supporting my girls' needs," he says, dropping a kiss to my temple. "Even the disgusting ones."

The familiar weight of him beside me, the scent of sawdust and pine that clings to his skin—these simple things ground me in the present moment, in this life we've built together.

Three years ago, I came to this mountain expecting to spend less than forty-eight hours here. Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

"How's the commission coming?" I ask, nodding toward the workshop.

"Almost finished. The Hendersons are picking it up next week." His hand moves to my lower back, fingers working at the knot that's been bothering me all morning. "That'll be three major pieces this month. Your social media marketing is working wonders."

"It's not the marketing," I correct him. "It's your work. Word travels fast when someone creates pieces like yours."

He shrugs, never comfortable with praise, but I feel the pleased tension in his shoulders. Our partnership extends beyond the personal—his craftsmanship and my eye for value creating something neither of us could have built alone.

"I have another surprise," he says after a comfortable silence. "But this one's not ready yet."

"Another one? The cradle would have been more than enough."

His hand slides over my belly again, protective and possessive in that way that still makes my heart race. "I'm building her a tiny chair. For when she's a little older. And a table to match. And maybe a set of blocks." He pauses, looking slightly embarrassed. "I may have gotten carried away."

"You think?" I tease, but there's no real criticism in it. His dedication, his careful attention to detail, his need to create and protect—these are the things that made me fall in love with him three years ago. They're the things I fall in love with again every day.

"It's not like you're any better," he points out. "I saw the tiny art easel you ordered last week. She's not going to be painting landscapes for at least a few years."

"It's never too early to nurture creativity," I say primly, then break into a smile at his knowing look. "Fine. I may have gotten a little carried away too."

His laugh is low and warm against my ear. "We're going to be those parents, aren't we?"

"Completely hopeless," I agree. "Utterly besotted before she's even here."

The baby moves again, a slow roll that visibly shifts the landscape of my belly. Paul watches with fascination, then leans down to speak directly to my stomach.

"Your mom and I are very excited to meet you," he says seriously. "But you need to stay put a little longer. I have three more projects to finish before you arrive."

"Five more weeks," I say, though we both know babies operate on their own schedules. "Just enough time for me to finish the Anderson estate valuation and set up the home office for remote work."

Paul nods, but his expression turns thoughtful, almost wistful. "Three years ago, I stood on this porch waiting for you, not even knowing what you looked like. Just knowing you belonged here." His hand spreads wide over the crest of my belly. "Now look at us."

I cover his hand with mine, feeling the strength in his fingers, the calluses earned through years of working with wood and metal and earth. "I still can't believe I almost sold this place," I admit. "That I almost walked away from all of this."

"You wouldn't have," he says with that same quiet certainty he's always had. "This mountain gets in your blood. This place was always waiting for you to come home. I was just the caretaker until you were ready."

"Always so sure," I tease, leaning into his side. "My obsessive mountain man."

He turns my face to his, kissing me with a tenderness that still holds the heat of those first desperate embraces. "I knew this was our home," he murmurs against my lips. "From the very beginning."

I smile against his mouth, feeling the baby shift between us, completing the circle. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Another summer storm approaching, like the one that first stranded me here. Like the one that changed everything.

"And you were always mine," I whisper back, the truth of it settled deep in my bones, as solid and eternal as the mountains that surround us.

Thank you for reading!