Page 7 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
He’s out within a minute. I find a throw blanket and tuck it around his shoulders.
Shaking my head, I mumble, “Men.”
While he sleeps, I curl up on another sofa, the fire rekindled. Outside, the snow keeps falling outside.
I sip my coffee, resisting the urge to peek at that folded paper tucked in his pocket. The edge of it sticks out just enough to taunt me.
If this morning is any indication, whatever’s on that list, is going to make my next few days anything but peaceful.
THREE
THATCHER
When I wake up a few hours later, the room’s gone dusky.
Gray light spills through the windows, fire burned low, the clock over the mantel ticking toward six.
My stomach’s settled. My pride? Not even a little.
I sit up slowly, throat dry, and spot the empty eggnog carton on the table like evidence from a crime scene.
Smooth move, Thatcher. First full day of suspension, and I manage to get drunk on dairy.
The blanket sliding off my chest smells faintly like pine and something warm and feminine. Her.
Liz.
She must’ve put me to bed. Or whatever this couch nap qualifies. That somehow makes the humiliation worse. She’s probably been laughing about it all afternoon.
I stretch, joints popping, and spot movement in the kitchen. She’s at the counter, laptop open, earbuds in, typing with laser focus. There’s a mug of coffee beside her and the soft hum of holiday music playing low through her phone.
I should keep quiet. Gather my dignity, maybe an apology. Instead, I reach for the folded sheet of paper on the coffee table.
Mynaughty list.
A dumb joke that suddenly feels like a checklist for bad ideas.
Still, old habits die hard. I fish out a pen, cross throughDrink a gallon of eggnog.
“Congratulations,” a voice says behind me. “You survived lactose poisoning.”
I flinch hard enough to almost drop the pen. She’s leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Her cheeks are flushed from the firelight, hair pulled into a messy twist that keeps trying to escape.
“I was just—uh—taking inventory.”
She nods at the list. “How’s that going?”
“Productive day,” I say. “Accomplished one goal, regretted it immediately.”
“That seems to be a theme for you.”
“Fair,” I admit. “I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me new dish towels.” She glances toward the sink, where the evidence of my earlier disaster probably still lingers. “But apology accepted.”
Relief slips out in a chuckle. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen worse. I used to work in advertising. Half my coworkers acted like you on a daily basis—without the charm.”
