Page 6 of Snowed in with a Grinch

“On the couch.” He gestures toward the worn leather sofa like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“The couch?” I glance at it skeptically. It's barely big enough for one person to sit comfortably, let alone for someone of my size to sleep on. “I mean, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'm not exactly built for tiny spaces...”

“It's a pull-out.” He takes the big cushions off to reveal the fold-out mattress underneath. His movements show off the muscles in his arms, and I find myself momentarily distracted until he looks at me and frowns.Oop!

“Oh! Sure. A pull-out? That's wonderful! I love pull-out couches.”

“Really,” he says, moving to take the bedding off me.

“Absolutely. They're so... practical. And convenient. And...” I watch as he returns to unfolding the couch, the mattress looking decidedly thin and lumpy. “...somewhat uncomfortable. But that's OK! I'm really good at making the best of things. Did I mention I once had to film an entire toy unboxing video in a supply closet because the office power went out? Talk about improvising! Though I suppose that's not quite the same as sleeping on a probably ancient pull-out couch during a blizzard...”

Sawyer pauses in his task of arranging the bedding, those intense eyes of his studying me. “You really don't do silence, do you?”

“Silence is highly overrated. Did you know talking to yourself is actually a sign of intelligence? I read that somewhere. Probably Twitter. Or maybe LinkedIn? I manage social media for Wonder Toys—best job ever, by the way. I basically get paidto play with toys and spread joy. Today I made a hot cocoa board for Santa. Do you like hot cocoa? You seem more like a black coffee person, which tracks with the whole mountain man aesthetic you've got going on...”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a moment, I think I see something soften in his expression. His hands look like he knows how to be both roughandgentle as he tucks in the corners of the sheets, making sure everything's secure. And just the idea of this giant of a man showing me a little rough and gentle makes my knees press together.

“I'll get you some extra blankets,” he says, disappearing down the hall before I can get too lost in my fantasy. When he returns, it’s with an armful of thick quilts. “It gets cold at night.”

“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as he hands them to me, and that same electric spark from earlier shoots through my body. “I really appreciate all this. You didn't have to help me.”

“Couldn't exactly leave you out there to freeze.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost uncomfortable with my gratitude. “Make yourself comfortable. There are eggs and things for sandwiches in the fridge if you’re hungry. I've got work to do.”

“At night? During a blizzard?”

“Yes.” He heads back toward his workshop and the mysterious door.

“But it's Christmas Eve!”

He pauses, looking back at me. “Then I suggest you get some sleep so Santa can come.”

“But there's no tree!”

“Stick a candle on top of that stack of books. Same thing.”

“Candles? On books? Are you serious? That's like, a major fire hazard! And also slightly sacrilegious to both Christmas and literature.”

“Improvise,” he grunts, disappearing behind the door.

The door.

I can't help but stare at it. There's something about it... something that calls to me. Like it's a portal to another world, a world filled with secrets and mysteries. Insight intohim.

But I know better than to pry. This is Sawyer's space, his sanctuary, and I'm just an unexpected guest. An unexpected guest who can't stop talking, apparently.

I turn my attention back to the couch, which, it turns out, is surprisingly comfortable as a pull-out. I fluff the pillows and snuggle under the thick blankets, but sleep feels impossible. The bare walls seem to mock me, their emptiness a stark contrast to what Christmas Eve should look like. Even the warm glow from the fireplace can't quite chase away the clinical feel of the space.

Sitting up, I bite my lip as I look around the space. “Well, he did say I could improvise,” I say to myself, already forming plans. The social media prop box in my car is a treasure trove of possibility—battery-operated twinkle lights that could transform these stark walls into a starlit wonderland, silver and gold tinsel that would catch and reflect the firelight, and even a tiny artificial tree that could bring some much-needed holiday charm to that empty corner by the fireplace.

My fingers itch to start decorating, to breathe life and warmth into this beautiful but austere space. Even the wooden beams are begging for a touch of sparkle. I could drape the lights along them, creating a soft, magical glow that would make the whole room feel more intimate. The stack of plant books could become an impromptu Christmas tree stand, topped with battery-operated candles—much safer than his suggestion of real ones.

Sure, Sawyer might growl when he sees what I've done, but sometimes people need a gentle push toward joy. And there's something about this cabin, about him, that feels like it's crying out for a little Christmas magic.

Rising from the pull-out, I wrap one of the quilts around my shoulders like a cape and pad toward the front door. The storm still rages outside, but my car isn't far. A quick dash through the snow would be worth it to transform this space into something special.

“Sorry, Sawyer,” I whisper to the empty room, “but every Grinch needs a Cindy Lou Who.”

SAWYER

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