Page 18 of Mountain Man Santa

Emboldened by her reaction, I confess, “I hate to admit this, but you could talk me into more or less anything, which is probably a statement I’m gonna live to regret as your employer.” Closing the distance between us, I sink my lips into hers with a satisfied moan. I might be a fool for her, but I couldn’t be a happier one.

The ride to my place is slow and tedious, thanks to the tornado of white engulfing us. Instead of talking, I excuse gruffly, “I’ve got to concentrate on driving.”

In reality, my mind plots ways to keep my employee. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I damn well know I wantit to last much longer than a blizzard. I resolve to make the next few days so fucking amazing she won’t be able to leave me…even when she wants to.

That means pulling out all the stops, mentally, physically, and emotionally, so that she gets a firm sense of what it’s like to be my girl. I hope I can be enough for her. And I’ll do anything it takes to make her mine.

I shake my head, laughing silently to myself. Elliott not going down on this girl is the biggest fucking mistake he ever made. Some guys never cease to amaze me. I can’t begin to imagine what his problem is because I can’t think of anything better than her seated on my face…

Yeah, I can. Her sticking with me through thick and thin, even after knowing about the man I used to be and the price I had to pay…

Chapter

Twelve

STACEY

The world is a dizzy blur of winter when we reach Jerry’s cabin. His windshield wipers squeak back and forth, barely making a difference against the chaotic ivory swirl dancing in front of the windshield. Snowflakes come so quickly and thickly that staring at them makes me feel disoriented.

I study the giant out of the corner of my eye, admitting how gorgeous and manly he is. I’ve known this all along but refused to let myself really look at him or think about the possibilities. Misplaced loyalty for Elliott, and my need to stay professional always got in the way.

Pulling into his driveway, Jerry lets out a long sigh. “Glad we’re here. Because that was getting pretty close to undrivable.”

“Yeah, it was. Staring at it made me feel hypnotized or something.”

He nods. “It was rough.”

Rounding the truck, he opens my door, reaching in without hesitation to unbuckle my seatbelt and grab me around the waist before hoisting me down onto the snowy ground. “Watch your step,” he warns. “It’s damn slippery out here.”

I’m a plus-sized girl, and while I’ve always had a lot of body confidence, I’ve never been around a burly, strong manlike Jerry. There’s something ridiculously sexy about the way he manhandles me like I weigh nothing.

Offering me his arm, I loop mine through his, squeezing his thick bicep and listening to the snow crunch under our boots as we approach his front door. I expect him to go for his keys when we reach the entrance, but instead, he wheels around, staring at me long and hard.

“First things first, I wasn’t expecting any guests over, and I’ve been cooking sauerkraut and split peas in the crockpot all day. So, get ready for a…unique smell.”

I scrunch my nose. “Sauerkraut and peas?”

He nods. “It’s a tradition in my family. I’ll air the place out, so it’s not so bad. Believe me, though, for as awful as it smells, it tastes fan-fucking-tastic, especially with a nice loaf of homemade black or marble rye bread and some kielbasa.”

Until this morning with my brothers, Jerry’s always given off a bit of an Italian vibe, probably because of his aggressive Brooklyn accent. I have yet to entertain what his Polish heritage looks like.

Unlocking the door, he starts to open it before turning around again. “There’s also wild mushroom borscht in a second crockpot, which can also have an iffy odor. Just for the record, outside of Christmas, my cabin usually smells like evergreen candles and shit like that.”

“Sauerkraut, kielbasa, borscht. Is that how Polish people eat at Christmas time, Jerry?”

He nods, his lip curling up a little bit. “I understand it’s not for everyone.”

“Do you have any pierogis in there somewhere?” I ask, my stomach lurching with hunger. I haven’t eaten dinner yet.

“Of course,” he says with a laugh. “You know about pierogis?”

“I’ve only ever had the store-bought ones stuffed with cheese or mashed potatoes and onions. But they’re delish.”

His smile widens. “I’m not sure which kinds you’ve had before, but I hand-make my own, of course. I’ve got some with mashed potatoes and onions, others with cheese, and a couple of dessert varieties. One with wild strawberries and the other with prunes.”

“Sweet pierogis? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Absolutely,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.

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