Page 4 of Snowed in with a Grinch

“Like being stuck with a grumpy mountain man?” I can’t help but smirk at my joke, but the moment I see the urgency in her eyes, the smile falters. “Look, you can try calling them, if that’ll help ease your worry.”

“No signal up here!” Her eyes brim as she holds her phone up to illustrate her point. The sight of her distress feels uncomfortable. I'm not used to caring about other people's emotions anymore.

“No. But there's a landline. If you're lucky, the lines are still up.” I try to keep my voice gruff, professional, even as I watch a tear escape down her cheek.

“A landline?” She sniffs and swipes her tear away. “What century is this?” Despite her upset, there's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my lips twitch.

“The same century where people still get stranded on mountains during snowstorms.” I walk over to the ancient rotary handset attached to my kitchen wall and lift the receiver to listen for a dial tone. “You know how to work one of these things?”

“Of course I do,” she says, but her confident tone doesn't match the way she's eyeing the phone like it might bite her. She snatches it from my hand and walks closer to the wall cradle, hesitating with her finger hovering over the circular dial.

I watch her with a mix of amusement and, well,attraction, as she struggles with the ancient technology. Her dress rides upslightly as she shifts her weight, and I force my eyes back to her face. “Come on. Surely you had one of those plastic toy phones as a kid.”

“The toy phone I had was a flip phone,” she says as she fumbles with the rotary dial. There's a delicate balance of concentration and anxiety on her face, and I can't help but chuckle at her frustration. “This is ridiculous! How do people even use these?”

“Here.” Before I can stop myself, I move in behind her, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. She stiffens slightly as my chest brushes against her back, but doesn't pull away. The scent of her shampoo hits me. Something sweet and festive that makes my head spin. “What's the number?”

My voice comes out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat. The small space between us crackles with tension, and I'm suddenly very aware of how perfectly she'd fit against me if I pulled her closer. How soft she’d feel digging my fingers into her flesh…

She hesitates for a moment as she looks up at me, her breathing quickened. “I was just about to figure it out, you know.”

“I'm sure you were.” I smile at her stubbornness, even as I fight my dick so it doesn’t jump to attention over her proximity. “The number?”

With a small huff, she recites her parents' number. I dial it smoothly, and after a light click, the call goes through. I pass the handset back to her.

“It's ringing,” I murmur, reluctantly stepping back.

“I totally had it,” she insists, but then her eyes light up as someone answers and she turns away from me as she presses the handset to her ear. “Mom? Mom! Oh thank goodness...”

I move away, chuckling to myself as I hear her launch into an explanation of her situation. Her voice follows me as I headtoward my workroom so she can talk with her family in peace. Her voice fades as I slip through the door, replaced by the soft hum of equipment and the familiar scent of soil and growth. My babies need attention, especially with this storm threatening to drop temperatures lower than forecast.

“Looks like it'll be more than just you and me tonight,” I murmur, checking the monitors. The digital readouts show steady temperatures for now, but I know how quickly that can change. The rare Paphiopedilum orchid I've been cultivating for three years is particularly sensitive to temperature fluctuations. One wrong degree and months of careful work could be lost.

Moving between the rows of plants, I breathe in the rich, earthy scent that always calms me. Each specimen has its place, its purpose, its own particular needs. Unlike people, they're predictable. Give them what they need, and they thrive. Simple. Or at least it was simple before a Christmas angel crashed into my fence and brought chaos to my carefully ordered world.

The Victorian-era orangery glass above lets in what little natural light remains, the storm casting strange shadows through the reinforced panels. Wind howls against the glass, making the panes rattle ominously.

Through the door, I can still hear Noelle's voice, animated and warm even through the walls. The sound disrupts my usual peaceful routine, but not unpleasantly. It's been so long since another voice echoed through these rooms that I'd forgotten what it felt like to share space with someone else.

My hands move automatically through their familiar tasks—adjusting grow lights, checking soil moisture, monitoring humidity levels. Each plant gets its own attention, its own care. The rare specimens, especially, need constant vigilance. Years of research, countless hours of careful cultivation, all housed in this glass sanctuary.

“At least you don't ask questions,” I murmur to the orchid, its delicate petals still stubbornly closed. “Or crash into fences. Or wear polka dot dresses that make a man forget how to think straight.”

A strong gust of wind rattles the greenhouse, and I glance at the temperature gauges again. Everything's holding steady, but something in my gut tells me this storm isn't done testing us yet. I'll need to keep checking throughout the night, which means more encounters with my unexpected guest. Something I’m not mad about…

NOELLE

“Ipromise I'm fine, Mom. I'm safe and warm, and—” The line crackles, making it hard to hear my mother's worried voice on the other end. “Mom? Hello?”

I press the phone closer to my ear, but static takes over all sound before the line goes completely dead. “Great.” I hang up the ancient phone and sigh. At least I managed to let my family know I’m not frozen in a ditch somewhere, even if I didn't get to hear the end of Mom's lecture about listening to her instead of driving in snowstorms.

The silence after the call feels heavy and I check on the time. By now, my family will be gathering in the living room, all wearing the matching pajamas Mom gets us every year. Great-Aunt Pearl would be organizing them all for the annual Christmas Eve photo, making sure everyone's Santa hats are positioned just right. My cousins would be sneaking peeks at the presents under the tree, trying to guess what's inside by shaking the boxes when they think no one's looking.

And here I am, stranded in a grumpy stranger's cabin, missing it all.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting back the wave of homesickness. The scent of Mom's delicious cookies won't be filling the house this year—at least not for me. No competitive charades tournament that always ends with Dad doing his infamous mime in a box routine. No midnight cookie decorating session with my sister where we always end up eating more frosting than we put the cookies…

“Get it together, Noelle,” I mutter to myself, forcing a smile. “At least you're not stuck in your car becoming a human popsicle. And your host may be grumpy, but he's...” Gorgeous? Intriguing? Definitely not willing to wear a matching Christmas pajama set with a goofy Santa hat…

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