Page 11 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
I hesitate, the familiar shame creeping up my spine. The same shame Marcus carefully cultivated every time someone asked about my work.
"Romance," I admit, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Contemporary romance novels."
"Seriously?" Savannah's eyes light up. "I love romance novels! What's your pen name? Have I read your work?"
"Kelsie Walsh is my actual name," I say, surprised and delighted by her enthusiasm. "My latest was 'Midnight in Manhattan,' but it came out almost two years ago."
"Oh my God!" She grabs my arm. "I totally read that! The one with the workaholic event planner and the mysterious hotel owner? I devoured it in one sitting!"
Warmth blooms in my chest at her genuine response. "That's the one."
"Dad, you have a legitimate author staying with you!" Savannah turns to her father, who looks slightly bewildered by her excitement. "This is so cool!"
Tom clears his throat. "I wasn't aware you were published," he says to me.
"Three books." I push my glasses up, a nervous habit. "The fourth is what I'm working on now. Or trying to, anyway."
"Writer's block?" Savannah asks sympathetically.
"Eight months of creative drought." I sigh. "Until I got here. Something about Whisper Vale has finally got the words flowing again."
"It's the mountain air," she says with conviction. "Or maybe the company." She winks at her father, who responds with a long suffering look I'm beginning to recognize as his standard reaction to teasing.
"Coffee?" he offers, clearly attempting to change the subject.
"Already made a fresh pot," I tell him. "And yes, I used your ancient machine even though it belongs in a museum. The new one I ordered should arrive tomorrow."
"You ordered him a new coffee maker?" Savannah looks between us, seeming delighted by this development. "And he's letting you? Dad won't even let me replace the toaster that's been burning bread since I was in middle school."
"The toaster works fine," Tom grumbles, pouring himself coffee. "Just need to adjust the setting."
"The setting broke in 2010," Savannah stage whispers to me. "He refuses to admit it."
I laugh, enjoying their familiar banter and the glimpse it provides into their relationship. Beneath the sheriff's gruff exterior clearly lies deep affection for his daughter.
"Actually," I say, "I was hoping to get some local insight. My protagonist in the new book lives in a small mountain town, and I want to get the details right. The community dynamics, the seasonal traditions, that sort of thing."
"You're setting your book here?" Savannah practically bounces with excitement. "In Whisper Vale?"
"A fictionalized version," I clarify. "But yes, inspired by what I've seen so far."
"Then you absolutely have to come to the tree lighting ceremony tomorrow night," she declares. "The whole town turns out. It's our biggest holiday tradition."
Tom makes a noncommittal noise that draws both our attention.
"Dad never goes," Savannah explains, her voice softening. "But it's really beautiful. The town square, everyone singing carols, kids drinking hot chocolate. Very Hallmark movie, but genuine."
"Sounds lovely," I say carefully, watching Tom's expression close off at the mention of Christmas traditions. "But I wouldn't want to impose."
"No imposition. I'll take you." Savannah glances at her father. "Unless Dad wants to come this year?"
"Can't," he says automatically. "Working."
The brief flicker of disappointment on Savannah's face suggests this is a long standing excuse. I think of what Sylvie told me at the coffee shop. His wife left two weeks before Christmas sixteen years ago. He's been avoiding the holiday ever since.
"I'd love to go with you," I tell Savannah, giving her a genuine smile. "Research purposes and all that."
"Perfect! We can grab dinner first." She checks her watch. "Speaking of which, I should get going. Promised Colt I'd help at the shop this afternoon."
