Page 10 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
“Stevie and Grady?”
His jaw tightens. “He was my teammate. My best friend. And she’s my baby sister. It should be simple—two people I love are happy. But I keep picturing him on the ice next to me, knowing what he knows about her, about us. It messes with my head.”
“Because you feel left behind,” I say quietly.
He looks at me, startled, as if I’ve named something he’s never dared to say.
“Maybe,” he admits. “I thought I was protecting her, but really I just didn’t want to be the last one standing.”
I reach out before I can overthink it, brush my fingers over his forearm. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, a pulse beneath the surface. “You don’t have to stay angry to still love them.”
Something flickers in his eyes—gratitude, maybe relief. “You always talk like that?”
“Occupational hazard,” I say, trying for lightness. “I used to write emotional ad copy. Taglines about personal growth and finding your sparkle.”
He huffs a laugh. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. But I meant some of it.”
He glances out the window again, then back at me. “You want to help me with the next thing on the list?”
“That depends. Am I going to need a helmet?”
“Just gloves. We’re cutting down our own Christmas tree.”
Outside, the air bites at my cheeks, crisp and full of light. The forest around the cabin is dusted with new snow, branches bending under the weight. Thatcher carries the small hatchet like it’s an extension of his arm; I carry the thermos of cocoa and try not to stare at how good he looks doing it.
When we find the right tree—a perfectly imperfect spruce—he steps back and gestures grandly. “Your call, boss.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to supervise lumberjacks.”
“Too late.” He kneels, lines up the blade, and with each strike sends the scent of sap and cedar into the air. The sound echoes through the clearing. When the tree finally tips, he lets out a triumphant whoop that startles a flock of birds into flight.
He looks up at me, grin wide, cheeks pink from the cold. “Add ‘Timber!’ to the list.”
I laugh, the sound puffing white in the air. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handy.”
“Debatable.”
He hoists the tree over his shoulder, muscles flexing under his jacket, and my stomach does a traitorous little flip. I tell myself it’s the cold. It’s definitely not.
Back inside, we set the tree in a stand and stare at it. Bare branches, bits of snow melting onto the floor.
“No ornaments,” I say. “Guess that’s next on the list.”
He gestures toward the pantry. “We’ve got popcorn.”
An hour later, the living room smells of butter and woodsmoke. We sit cross-legged on the rug, threading popcorn and cranberries onto strings. He’s terrible at it—his line keeps snapping—but he’s patient, and his running commentary keeps me laughing.
When we run out of popcorn, I fold paper snowflakes from an old notebook. He watches, fascinated.
“You’re good at that,” he says.
“Occupational hazard again. Deadlines make you creative.”
He reaches over, brushes his thumb over one delicate edge. “You make something beautiful out of nothing.”
