Page 10 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"Everything's fine. Just... had company for dinner."
"Company?" Savannah's voice rises dramatically. "What company? Who's at the house? Dad, did you finally start dating again?"
"It's not like that," I say quickly, my face heating. "Just a temporary houseguest until the cabin heater gets fixed."
"Houseguest? In your house? The house where you barely let me rearrange the furniture?" Her voice rises with each question. "Who is this miracle worker and how did they get past your fortress of solitude?"
"Her name's Kelsie. She's Mason's sister." I lower my voice, though in the small kitchen there's no way Kelsie can't hear me. "Writer from San Diego. Just staying until the part for the cabin heater arrives."
"She. Her. A woman." Savannah sounds delighted. "Dad, this is huge. You haven't let anyone stay in that house since Mom left."
"It's not a big deal," I insist, uncomfortable with her excitement. "Just being neighborly."
"Neighborly. Right." I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "I'm coming over tomorrow to meet this not a big deal houseguest. No arguments."
Before I can protest, she hangs up. I tuck the phone away, aware of Kelsie studiously wiping down the already clean counter.
"Sorry about that," I say awkwardly. "My daughter's coming by tomorrow. She wants to meet you."
"I heard." Her smile is gentle. "Your phone is way too loud. She sounds protective of you."
"Other way around, usually." I lean against the counter, suddenly tired. "Look, about what she said. About not letting people stay here. It's not... I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"I don't." Kelsie meets my eyes directly. "I think we both understand what it's like to need space after someone walks out. Different circumstances, same wound."
The simple understanding in her words leaves me momentarily speechless. No platitudes. No psychoanalysis. Just recognition of a shared experience.
"Well," I finally say, "thanks for dinner. It was good."
It's woefully inadequate gratitude, but Kelsie beams as if I've given her a grand compliment.
"Anytime, Sheriff." She hangs up the dish towel. "Maybe tomorrow I'll tackle that ancient coffee maker of yours. Bring it into this century."
"The coffee maker's fine," I protest automatically.
"It makes coffee the color and consistency of motor oil." She pats my arm as she passes, her touch casual but leaving warmth in its wake. "Trust me, you deserve better."
As she disappears upstairs, I stand in my kitchen, realizing it hasn't felt this much like a home in sixteen years. I wonder what other changes Kelsie Walsh might bring into my carefully ordered life before she leaves. And why, despite all my best intentions, I'm starting to hope the cabin heater parts take their time arriving.
CHAPTER FOUR
KELSIE
The sound of voices downstairs pulls me from a particularly productive writing session. I save my document, noting with satisfaction that I've added another two thousand words since breakfast. Whatever creative dam broke inside me three days ago is now a steady, flowing river of words.
I check my reflection in the mirror, wincing at my disheveled appearance. Hair piled messily on top of my head, glasses sliding down my nose, ink smudged across one cheek. Typical writing binge evidence. Definitely not how I wanted to look when meeting the sheriff's daughter for the first time.
After a hasty attempt to make myself presentable, I venture downstairs, following the sound of conversation to the kitchen. Tom stands with his back to me, talking to a young woman who must be Savannah. She spots me first, her eyes widening slightly before a bright smile transforms her face.
"You must be Kelsie!" She steps around her father, hand extended in greeting. "I'm Savannah. Well, technically Savannah Reeves now, but whatever."
"Nice to meet you." I shake her hand, immediately liking her open, friendly demeanor. "Your father's been kind enough to let me stay while the cabin heater gets fixed."
"So I heard." She shoots her father a look I can't quite interpret. "Dad never mentioned Mason had a sister in town."
"Last minute arrangement," I explain, conscious of Tom watching our interaction closely. "I needed somewhere quiet to work on my book."
"You're a writer?" Savannah's interest visibly peaks. "What kind of books?"
