Page 16 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
“Was this the goal?” My voice cracks, only fueling my anger. “Check the box and move on?”
He crosses to me in two strides, but he doesn’t touch me yet. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it?”
“Flip it over,” he says quietly.
I hesitate, then turn the sheet. New words fill the back, written in the same rough scrawl but neater, almost careful.
Don’t fall.
For a second I can’t breathe. “Don’t fall?”
“And it’s too damn late.” He shakes his head. “Because I already am. I wrote that list before we met—” He swallows. “I added that last item before anything happened. To remind myself not to make a mess of something real.”
The anger drains away as fast as it came, replaced by warmth that starts in my chest and spreads outward until my eyes sting. He looks so unsure standing there—this man who dove into freezing water without hesitation—waiting for me to believe him.
“I don’t want a notch,” he says. “I wantyou.The rest of the list can go to hell.”
For a long beat, all I can do is stare at him, the page trembling slightly between my fingers. Then I let it fall to the floor and reach for his hand.
“Come on,” I say, voice soft but certain. “Let’s go back to bed.”
SEVEN
THATCHER
If suspension is supposed to feel like punishment, I must be doing it wrong.
The cabin looks like Christmas threw up on it—in the best way possible. The fire’s glowing, the scent of cinnamon and pine fills the air, and Liz has convinced me to try “artisanal” cookie decorating.
Of course, I’m failing spectacularly.
But she’s patient, laughing each time my gingerbread man loses another limb.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to just supervise?” I ask, holding up my latest casualty.
“It’s festive abstract art,” she teases. “A gingerbread Picasso.”
“I was aiming for hockey player, but yeah—sure.”
She leans across the counter, cheeks flushed from laughter and oven heat. “You’ve got icing on your nose.”
I wipe at it, miss entirely, and she steps closer, dabbing it away with her thumb. The brush of her touch makes the room tilt a little—warmth spreading, steady and unstoppable.For a heartbeat, we just stand there, firelight flickering over the garland-draped mantle, the faint strains of an old Bing Crosby song crackling through the cabin’s speakers.
I’ve been part of championship games with less magic than this.
After we clean up the cookie carnage, she suggests we finish decorating the tree. Our handmade ornaments from the other day glint among the lights—paper snowflakes, popcorn strings, a lopsided star fashioned from twigs we gathered behind the cabin.
She threads a final garland, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. “You’re really getting the hang of this mountain-man domestic life.”
“Careful,” I say. “If the league keeps me benched, I might start a home décor line.”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Thatcher Holt: professional lumberjack slash interior designer.”
“Hey, I could rock flannel couture.”
“You already do,” she says softly, almost to herself.
