Page 115 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

The drive to our cabin takes fourteen minutes.

Our cabin.

The words still bring a quiet thrill even though we signed the papers three weeks ago. The house sits on several wooded acres outside Cady Springs, close enough for me to reach the shop in fifteen minutes and far enough from neighboring properties to give Rocco the privacy he prefers. We chose it together.

I loved the wall of windows facing the mountains and the small room that will become my private studio. Rocco approved of the stone fireplace, reinforced doors, and clear view of the drive. The security system was installed before our furniture arrived.

Warm lights glow inside when we pull beneath the covered entry. Rocco carries me across the threshold despite pointing out that we have crossed it together at least twenty times.

“None of those counted,” he says.

“Why?”

“We weren’t married.”

“That sounds very sentimental.”

“Don’t mistake it for flexibility.”

The words take me back to a massage table beside a blocked emergency route and the first time I saw amusement break through his stern demeanor.

I wrap my arms around his neck. “I would never.”

He carries me into the bedroom. Candles wait to be lit along the dresser and wide stone hearth, their placement careful enough that I know he arranged them himself. A new snow globe rests on the bedside table. Inside it stands a miniature version of this cabin surrounded by autumn trees. Two tiny figures occupy the porch.

I turn the key beneath its base. Soft music fills the room.

“Harper said our real wedding gift was here.”

Rocco looks at the globe. “There are three figures.”

I lift it closer. He is right. The third is much smaller than the others, positioned between the couple on the porch.

“A dog?” I ask.

“No.”

“A child?”

Rocco examines it. “Harper is no longer permitted to predict our future through miniature sculpture.”

“She’ll be disappointed.”

“She’ll recover.”

He takes the globe from me and places it safely on the dresser. When he returns, his attention is fully on me. The laughter fades.

I feel the change between us, the deepening awareness that has only grown during the past year. We have learned each other through hurried mornings, long separations, disagreements, quiet evenings, and nights when desire becomes a language more honest than speech.

Rocco removes the crown from my hair and places it beside the snow globe.

“Still structurally sound,” I say.

“Barely.”

His fingers move through my hair, freeing the strands caught beneath the greenery. The gentleness of the task contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.

“We have nowhere else to be,” I whisper.