For the first time since I moved here, the scenic beauty of the Alpine mountains failed to register. The deck of my house was a perfect vantage point. Standing there, you could see the scope of the edge of the forest almost in its entirety, the length of the woods as far as the eyeline went, and looming above it all, the imposing wall that was the Roch Mountain. A little distance away, the surface of Roch River was perfectly still, the shards of light from the moon dancing on it. It was achingly beautiful. And yet it had never felt more mundane.

It was strange to think that I could lose all this. The life I had built for myself, this little slice of paradise… all gone just like that. I had carved a spot for myself away from the world, and retreated into it. The house I had built myself, slowly, as one does a pet project. I had overseen the placement of every brick, the laying of every panel. The engineers glanced curiously at me as they worked, their expressions wary. But they kept their reservations to themselves, and I did not let up until he house stood complete, a marvel of architecture and the sole outpost in an untamed land.

For ten years, these mountains had been my home.

The early years had been the most difficult. Shedding my past life had not been as easy as I had assumed it would be. Once in a while I would give in to temptation and sneak back into L.A., or travel to another city just to get a taste of it. I also developed a bad habit of meeting up with random guys for hook-ups, but that eventually fizzled out.

It had been almost two years since my last trip. Slowly, I had settled into my new life, and I no longer got the urge to revisit the past or the city that most represented it.

Soon, I could barely remember it. I often forgot what day it was. My routine stretched minutes into hours into days, each bleeding seamlessly into the next. The rest of the world faded and finally disappeared, until I forgot what it was like to see, touch and speak to another person. Which is why, when the doorbell rang this morning, I had been sure I was losing my mind.

I thought right away that I had been discovered. Some enterprising journalist had finally tracked me down and my cover was blown. But I reminded myself that it had been ten years. If ever the world had cared about me, it had surely moved on by now. There was no reason for anyone to be looking for me.

It had to be family, then, and the thought was unpleasant enough to drag me out of bed. As I had feared, the tall figure of Rance McCormick stood at my door, swathed in a ridiculously elaborate fur coat. I could just make him out through the large front window.

I stared at the door for a full minute, debating whether it was possible to just ignore him. It was too late, though. He had heard my footsteps, and he rang the doorbell again. Reluctantly, I opened the door.

Rance was an imposing figure. If Glamour magazine was to be believed, that was what made him a star; he commanded every space he was in. He radiated charisma and authority. And so forth and so forth.

He stood at over six feet tall, and even at sixty, he was built like an athlete. He had broad shoulders, a chiseled torso and thick, strong hands. And that was just what he looked like. He had a way of making you know right away that he was the smartest person in the room, and you were suddenly eager to impress him. It helped that he had been in over 30 movies, and that he had been named TIME’s most influential star of the last two decades.

“What are you doing here, Dad?” I asked him.

He had walked into the room with his characteristic scowl, which only deepened as his eyes wandered over my living room. Safe to say he wasn’t impressed, then. To be fair, I rarely bothered to clean or even put the house in order. One of the perks of living alone. I watched, slightly amused, as he prodded what looked like a dead animal at the foot of the couch.

“It’s only a crumpled sweatshirt, Dad. Jeez.”

Unconvinced, he elected to lean on one of the dining room chairs instead. He turned to me, his face unreadable.

“Is this what it has come to, Saul? You’re living in squalor to spite me? Hasn’t it been long enough?”

Typical. Assuming everything was about him.

“I don’t know that I’d use the term squalor. This is a mansion, after all.” I waved a hand vaguely in the air to indicate the scope of my property. “And this has nothing to do with you.”

“Ah. This is about Chris, then?”

“Please don’t say that name in my house.”

There was an awkward silence. I could see he wanted to push it, but something in my tone must have stopped him, because he opened and closed his mouth, then shook his head.

“Why are you here, Dad?” I asked again, suddenly impatient. It always happened. Any time he visited, he managed to somehow make me feel like a total disappointment without ever saying the words. Silently, he reached in that hideous coat of his and pulled out a thick envelope. He placed it on the table between us, indicating with his eyes that I should pick it up.

The envelope bore the logo of my dad’s law firm, Miller& Franklin. Trepidation made my fingers tremble slightly as I reached into the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of documents. I looked over the first one, and my forehead creased with each new line.

“You’re cutting me off.”

It was a legal statement, but for all its flowery jargon, the message could not be any clearer.

“I’m not cutting you off, no.” Dad pushed off the chair and started pacing. It was an old habit of his. He paced when he was tense. It was a tic he had even managed to work into almost all his movies.

“If you read the document,” he continued, “You are still the sole benefactor of my wealth and estates. That position is guaranteed, as you are my only son. But I can’t have you living like this anymore.”

“You mean you don’t want me living off your money anymore,” I said.

“Frankly, son, I’m concerned about you. How long do you plan on holing yourself away like this? I know you were hurt, but that’s no reason to lock yourself from the world.”

“I don’t want to talk about that…him.”

“Your mother and I want you to start your own family. We are not getting any younger, Saul, and you may not have noticed it, but neither are you.”

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with my inheritance.”

“Like I said, your inheritance is assured, but on one condition. I want you to get married and start your own family, or I will cut you off.”

“Come on, Dad. That’s ridiculous.”

“Within two years.”

“What?”

“If you won’t have a husband, with baby on the way in the next two years, then I will have no choice but to cut you off. Maybe then you’ll start taking things seriously.”

My phone buzzed, jerking me back to the present. That interaction with my father had been playing over and over in my mind since morning. I had pored over the documents, convinced this was some elaborate scheme to get me to return to the limelight. Knowing him, it wasn’t unthinkable that he was researching for a role.

“Hello?” I answered the phone without even looking to see who was calling.

“Saul. Darling.”

Mother. I was no doubt getting the good cop bad cop routine.

“Hi, Mother. Let me guess. You think I should do what Dad wants.”

She laughed, a rich trilling sound that reminded me forcefully of my childhood.

“Really, darling. Can a mother not check in on her son without these foul accusations?”

“The timing is highly suspect, Mother. This isn’t the first time you two have played good cop, bad cop, you know. It’s how you got me to do pretty much everything.”

“Well, it’s not that he’s asking you to move back to L.A.! All we’re asking is that you put yourself out there once more.”

“Two years? Is that how long it took you two?”

“Oh, your father and I fell in love the minute we met. The very second I saw him, I knew I wanted nothing else. And he’s given me the happiest years of my life. Is it so bad that I want that for you?”

“Is that why he’s making it about money?”

“He only put that clause in because he knew it would make you listen, darling. You know the money isn’t important to him.”

Damn it, but the woman was good. I felt a sudden outpouring of affection for her, as I tried picturing her sprawled out on her favorite couch, draped in designer clothes and swirling a glass of white wine.

“How are you, anyway? I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you in such a long time…” I trailed off, unsure how to explain why I had not made an effort to see her.

“No, no. I understand. It was unfortunate, what happened to you. And I know you’re heartbroken, but don’t you think it’s time you give this thing another shot?”

“I don’t know if I can, Mother.”

“Give it a shot. That’s all I ask.”

I heard the plea in her voice. I also heard the unsaid words. Phoebe McCormick had everything a woman could possibly want. The only thing missing was a grandson to spoil silly.

I hated to admit it, but the phone call had worked. Far more effectively than the ambush. I looked once more at the beautiful scenery in front of me, and for the first time since Chris, I thought about what it would be like to share it with someone else. We would have the place to ourselves. The entire mountain, if we wanted. There was no one around for miles. We could run around naked, swimming in the Roch and fucking passionately in the blanket of sunset. And then we would walk back to the house hand in hand.

It was something I had always wanted, something I thought I had found, only for my heart to be shattered completely, and my dreams to be squashed. I had not allowed myself to think about it ever since. In ten years, I had reveled in the solitude I felt I deserved. On the rare occasions a bit of loneliness managed to creep in, I shoved it away with the memory of that betrayal or drank it away in the company of handsome strangers I would forget immediately afterwards.

I had seen what love was, what it did to you. It left you open and vulnerable, weak and dependent. And just like the cheapest drugs, when it was gone the world felt like it had lost color. There was no way I was opening myself up to that pain again.

And yet I had to do something. At this point, I needed the money. It had been such a long time since I was in the real world I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to cope if I was thrust right back into it.

I picked up the legal documents and perused them once more. On the second reading, I had an epiphany. It was stupid, really, how I had not seen it right away. The contract said nothing about love. I was not expected to fall in love, only to get married and have a baby. That was simple enough, now that I thought about it.

The rough outline of a plan began to form in my head. I rushed over to my computer and sat down. A thin film of dust coated the screen and the keyboard. I couldn’t remember the last time I had used it. I logged on to the internet, amused at how stiff and foreign my fingers felt. There has always been information about websites that offer mail order brides. I did a quick search, and found myself swamped by the sheer magnitude of them.

After several minutes of poring through each one, I landed on one that seemed convenient. Mail Misters specialized in exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. It connected those searching for grooms with potential matches. Once I signed up as a buyer, I was then able to peruse the profiles of all the grooms I could reasonably be put together with. I had full autonomy on the specifics of the engagement. Whether I wanted a fling, a hook-up or a marriage, the site catered for that.

I browsed the terms and conditions, confident this was the perfect site. Once I had specified what I wanted, the contract would be sent over to whichever groom I chose, and if they accepted, we would be officially matched. The site provided a temporary marriage certificate, which would be valid for ten days. After the ten days, if both parties, were happy with the arrangement, they could then sign a permanent certificate.

I liked it. All I had to do was create a contract stating that I wanted a marriage that would effectively be a paper marriage. I would insist on getting a child within two years, and then after that I would terminate the relationship.

Satisfied, I signed up as a buyer and quickly created a contract. I decided to include a clause that would protect me from any romantic entanglements. No love. No expectations of a romantic future of any kind. I wanted a husband only in name. This was a business deal. The more professional the whole thing was, the better.

I then went to the page with the grooms, and the screen filled right away with photos of potential matches. I scrolled down the page, growing increasingly unimpressed with what appeared to be a collection of bland photos.

It was then that I saw him.

His profile stood out from the rest so starkly it was hard not to notice him. While most of the matches had gone for stock, studio-edited photographs for their profiles, this one had put up a more personal one. He was gorgeous. He had longish dark hair that he had tied back in a loose bun. His eyes were the deepest shade of green I had ever seen, framed by perfectly sculpted eyebrows and prominent cheekbones. His lips were full and sensual; I felt the slightest tinge in my pants just looking at them.

He was hot, there was no denying it. I browsed his profile briefly and I was happy to see he was exactly what I was looking for. I clicked on the accept link, then went back to his profile photo. It was as if those eyes were staring me down, beckoning. It was impossible to ignore the fullness of my erection any longer. I reached into my pants and pulled my dick out. It pulsed gently in my hand, almost accusatory. I closed my eyes, my mind filled with images of those green pools, and began to stroke gently.

It had been so long since I had been with anyone. It had been even longer since I had jacked off to someone else. But this guy turned me on. As I looked at him, I found myself imagining myself on top of him, staring into his eyes as I penetrated him. I imagined running my hands through his hair as he writhed beneath me.

I closed my eyes and stroked faster, my body already tensing as my release approached.