Page 17 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
Something tightens low in my chest. She doesn’t even realize what that does to me—to be looked at like I’m more than the mess I’ve made. More than a guy trying to outrun his own mistakes.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying our work. The tree isn’t perfect. Neither are we. But the light it casts across the room feels like hope.
We settle on the couch with cocoa and a blanket, the air full of pine and quiet. I can’t stop staring at her profile—the way her lashes flutter when she laughs, the way her fingers cradle the mug for warmth.
“What was Christmas like for you growing up?” she asks, turning to me.
I think about it, take a long sip before answering. “Loud. Competitive. My dad used to set up skating drills in the driveway. I got a hockey stick instead of a teddy bear. I don’t think he knew how to turn off coach mode.”
She smiles gently. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. But good, too. He meant well. I just… never learned how to stop proving myself.” I gesture vaguely around us. “Suspension was supposed to teach me humility. Instead, I got you and an impressive cookie-baking resume.”
“You call that impressive?” she laughs.
“Hey, that snowman had structural integrity issues, not artistic flaws.”
Her laughter quiets, and for a moment her gaze lingers on me—warm, unguarded. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A cocky athlete who’d spend the whole time complaining about missing the game.”
I shrug. “Maybe I am. I just don’t feel like complaining when you’re around.”
She looks away, but not before I catch the blush rising in her cheeks.
She tells me about her childhood next—about her mom stringing lights across the porch, her dad reading’Twas the Night Before Christmasby candlelight. “Every Christmas Eve, our town had a tree-lighting,” she says. “Everyone gathered in the square, and we’d singSilent Nightwhile holding candles. It was my favorite part.”
There’s a faraway look in her eyes that makes me ache a little.
“You said they still do that here, right?” I ask.
She nods. “Tomorrow night. I saw the flyer at the market.”
“Then we’re going.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You’d actually go to something that wholesome?”
“I’d go anywhere with you,” I say without thinking.
The words hang there, soft but solid. Her lips part slightly, like she’s not sure what to say, and for once, I don’t try to fill the silence. It’s enough to just look at her, to feel the fire reflecting in her eyes and know that I’d give up every win, every highlight reel moment, just to keep this—her laughter, her warmth, her quiet.
The next afternoon, we make plans. She wraps herself in a red scarf and those ridiculous fuzzy earmuffs she found in a drawer. I pull on my thickest coat and offer to drive us into town for cocoa before the lighting. The air outside is crisp, the sky a watercolor wash of pink and gray.
We’re halfway through bundling up when headlights sweep across the drive. A car crunches to a stop on the packed snow.
“Were you expecting anyone?” she asks.
I shake my head, peering out the window. My pulse spikes when I recognize the SUV. “Oh, hell.”
Liz blinks. “What?”
“Family.”
Sure enough, Grady climbs out first, then Stevie—waving like she’s just shown up for brunch. I groan, but Liz is already smiling, pulling open the door.
Stevie barrels in and hugs me so hard my ribs pop. “You look cozy! And alive! And maybe even happy? Miraclesdohappen!”
