Page 16 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"My parents viewed holidays as inconvenient obligations. Something to endure rather than enjoy." She shrugs oneshoulder, the sweater slipping further to reveal more skin. I force my eyes away. "Christmas was just another day with extra pressure and inevitable disappointment."
"And now?" I’m genuinely curious.
"Now I'm trying to figure out what I actually enjoy rather than what I was conditioned to expect." Her smile is small but genuine. "Though I have to admit, the idea of a small town tree lighting ceremony with hot chocolate and caroling does sound pretty magical."
The hope in her voice creates an unexpected pang of guilt. She's excited about experiencing a small town Christmas, and here I am, the perpetual holiday grinch.
"You'll enjoy it," I tell her. "Whisper Vale does Christmas well. The whole town participates."
"Except its sheriff." Her observation carries no judgment, just quiet understanding.
"Some traditions are better observed from a distance."
She nods, accepting my boundary without pushing. The conversation shifts to safer topics as we finish eating. She tells me more about her explorations around town, the characters she's developing for her book, the way the mountain setting inspires her creativity.
I relax, drawn into her animated descriptions and genuine interest when I occasionally share insights about the town and its inhabitants. She's easy to talk to, her questions thoughtful rather than intrusive, her laughter quick and uninhibited.
After dinner, I insist on cleaning up since she cooked. She perches on a kitchen stool, legs crossed, watching me with that writer's observant gaze that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and seen.
"You don't have to analyze my dish washing technique for your book," I tell her, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.
"Sorry." She ducks her head, a flush coloring her cheeks. "Occupational hazard. I people watch without realizing I'm doing it."
"And what fascinating insights have you gleaned from watching me rinse plates?" I'm surprised that I’m almost teasing her.
"That you're methodical. Efficient. Someone who completes tasks thoroughly without wasted motion." She tilts her head, glasses sliding down again. "And that you're much kinder than you want people to think."
I nearly drop the glass I'm rinsing. "That's a stretch."
"Is it? You let a complete stranger stay in your home because her cabin was cold. You walk her into town. You notice details about what she says at breakfast." She counts these off on her fingers. "You pretend to be annoyed by her chaos but haven't actually complained about the notebooks she leaves everywhere."
"The notebooks are temporary," I point out, deflecting from her uncomfortable accuracy. "And the kindness is basic decency."
"If that were true, everyone would practice it." She hops off the stool, moving to dry the dishes I've washed. "Basic decency is actually quite rare, Sheriff Parker."
She stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, smell that intriguing vanilla spice scent. When she reaches for a plate, her arm brushes mine, the brief contact sending an unexpected current through me. It's been so long since I've experienced casual touch that even this accidental contact feels significant.
"Tom," I say suddenly, surprising myself.
"What?"
"You can call me Tom." I focus intently on the glass I'm washing. "No need for formalities when you're living in my house."
From the corner of my eye, I see her smile, wide and pleased. "Tom," she repeats, testing it out. "It suits you better than Sheriff Parker. Less intimidating."
"I'm supposed to be intimidating. It's part of the job."
"Well, you're failing miserably with me." Her laughter is warm and inviting. "Hard to be intimidated by someone who owns a coffee maker from the last century and sleep rumples his hair on one side every morning."
I run a self conscious hand through my hair, wondering if it's standing up right now. The casual intimacy of her noticing how I look in the mornings makes something twist pleasantly in my chest.
We finish the dishes in companionable silence, moving around each other in the small kitchen with surprising ease. When the last plate is put away, we find ourselves standing close, the kitchen counter at my back, Kelsie just a step away.
She looks up at me, her expression open and warm in a way that makes her even more attractive than her obvious physical beauty. The air grows pregnant between us, a change in pressure, in possibility.
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, drawing my attention downward. Her lips are full and soft looking. I wonder how they would feel against mine, then immediately shut down the thought. This is dangerous territory. She's a temporary guest. A visitor passing through. Nothing more.
"I should go over my notes," she says, her voice slightly breathless. "For my book."
