Page 5 of Snowed in with a Grinch

With a heavy sigh, I turn around and try to figure out where my grumpy mountain host has disappeared to. His cabin's bigger than it looked from outside. Or maybe it just looks bigger because there's barely any furniture in it. It’s all rustic wood, minimal decoration, and absolutely zero Christmas cheer.

But it's the little details that catch my eye, the ones that tell a story about the man who lives here. There's a soft throw draped over a leather armchair, worn in spots like someone's spent countless nights curled up there reading. A stack of well-loved books on the coffee table shows evidence of frequent use—dog-eared pages, cracked spines, and what looks like coffee ring stains on their covers. The gentle warmth coming from the well-used fireplace suggests he at least believes in comfort, if not decoration.

I head over to the table and pick up one of the books, an extensively annotated guide to exotic plants. The margins are filled with neat, precise handwriting, notes about growing conditions, temperature requirements, and there are slips of paper with beautiful little pencil sketches of different flower formations. Each page shows the care and attention of someone obsessed with details. Beneath it, I find more books about rarespecies cultivation, botanical illustrations, and something that looks like it might be in Latin.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmur, carefully placing the books back exactly as I found them. This is definitely not your typical mountain man reading material—not that I’d really know what that is.

Moving deeper into the space, my fingers trail along the rough-hewn beams that frame the doorways. Everything about this place feels intentional, from the sturdy wooden bench in the entryway to the precise arrangement of hooks for coats. It's like he's created his own perfectly ordered world up here, and I've just crashed right through its boundaries—literally.

I peek into the next room, which seems to be some kind of workshop. The space is a perfect blend of science and artistry. Pots of various sizes line metal shelving units, each labeled with that same precise handwriting I saw in the books. Tools are arranged on a long workbench with the kind of organization that would make Marie Kondo proud. Several large jars filled with mysterious concoctions sit on a shelf against the wall, their contents varying shades of green and brown.

But it's the door with frosted glass panels next to the shelving that really catches my attention. There's something about it... something that calls to me like a mystery waiting to be solved.

Just as I reach for the handle, it swings open and Sawyer appears, blocking the entrance with his impressive frame. His sudden appearance startles me, but not enough to miss how his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he moves to shut the door behind him.Yum.

“What are you doing in my workshop?” His voice is gruff and low as he blocks the door behind him so I can’t see through the glass.

“I... I was just looking around,” I stammer, feeling like a trespasser. “It's fascinating.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “It's a mess. And dangerous.”

“I don’t think you understand what a mess is,” I counter. “What's behind the door?” The journalist in me (three months on the college paper totally counts) is dying to know what he's hiding.

“Nothing that concerns you.” His tone brooks no argument, but there's something in his eyes—worry, maybe?

“Is it plants? There’s a bunch of stuff to do with plants around the place.”

“Quit cataloging my space.”

I take a step back. “I’m not cataloging anything. I’m just curious about what one does all alone in a secluded cabin.”

“Well, curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah. So it’s a murder dungeon you’re hiding back there?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. “Secret lab? Ooh, or maybe you're building an army of robot Santas!”

He just stares at me, but I swear I see his lips twitch. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I'm nervous. Or excited. Or breathing.” I follow him back toward the living room, unable to help myself. “So, what do you do up here all alone? Besides perfect your Grinch impression?”

“I work.” He pulls blankets and pillows from a storage chest.

“On what?”

“Things.”

“What kind of things? I was looking at your books and?—”

“Private things.” He dumps the bedding into my arms.

“Are they illegal things? Because I should probably know if I'm harboring a criminal. Not that I'm judging! Everyone has their reasons. Like Robin Hood—he was technically a criminal, but for good causes. Are you a mountain Robin Hood?”

“No. And technically, I’m the one who’s harboring you.”

“Oh. Right.” I stare down at the blankets and pillows I’m holding. “So...what should I do with these?”

“Make a bed.”

“Where?”

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