Page 15 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"You're home!" She smiles like my arrival is the highlight of her day. "Dinner's almost ready. I hope you don't mind. I figured you might be hungry after working late."
"You didn't have to cook," I say, moving further into the kitchen.
"I wanted to. Consider it rent for the guest room." She turns back to the stove. "It's just pasta with garlic and vegetables. Nothing fancy."
"Smells good." I hover awkwardly, unsure of my place in this scenario. "Can I help with anything?"
"Plates?” She glances over her shoulder, glasses sliding down her nose in a way that's becoming increasingly familiar. Increasingly distracting.
I move to get the plates, hyperaware of her presence as I pass behind her. She smells like vanilla and something spicy. The combination is unexpectedly appealing.
"How was your afternoon?" I ask, setting the table. "Find what you needed for your research?"
"Whisper Vale is a goldmine of small town charm." Her enthusiasm is evident as she carries the pasta to the table. "Everyone was so friendly. Mrs. Henderson at the bookstore insisted I take tea with her while she told me all about the town's history. Did you know this place was founded by silver miners who supposedly followed a whisper in the mountain wind to find the original vein?"
"Hence the name," I confirm, sitting across from her. "The story gets more elaborate every time it's told. When I was a kid, it was just prospectors following basic geological signs."
"Don't ruin the magic with facts, Sheriff." She serves pasta onto my plate, the gesture casual yet strangely intimate. "Stories are what give places their character."
"Even if they're not entirely true?"
"Especially then." She sits, tucking one leg beneath her in a way that seems both childlike and graceful. "Truth is overrated in storytelling. It's the feeling that matters."
I take a bite of the pasta. The flavors are perfectly balanced, the pasta cooked exactly right. Nothing like the frozen meals I usually eat standing over the sink.
"This is really good," I tell her, surprised by how much I mean it. "You didn't have to go to the trouble."
"Cooking relaxes me." She twirls pasta around her fork. "Especially when I'm working through plot problems. Something about the repetitive actions frees my mind to solve the creative puzzles."
"And did you solve the one you were having?"
Her eyes meet mine, something warm and pleased in their depths. "You remembered I was stuck on a plot point."
"You mentioned it earlier." I shrug, uncomfortable with her apparent delight at such a small gesture.
"Most people tune out when I start talking about my writing process." She takes a sip of water. "But yes, I think I figured out why my protagonist was being so stubborn. She's afraid of being vulnerable again after being hurt. Easier to keep everyone at a distance than risk another heartbreak."
The character description hits uncomfortably close to home. I focus on my food, avoiding her perceptive gaze.
"Your daughter was a font of information today," she continues, allowing me the momentary retreat. "Called me after she left to tell me all about local holiday traditions I should include in my book."
"Savannah loves Christmas," I say carefully. "Always has."
"She mentioned the tree lighting tomorrow night again." Kelsie watches me over her glasses. "Why don’t you ever attend?"
I set down my fork, appetite suddenly diminished. "I work. Someone has to keep the peace while everyone else celebrates."
"Every year?"
"It's more efficient. Deputies with families get the night off."
"And what about your family?" Her question is gentle but direct. "Doesn't Savannah wish you were there?"
"She understood a long time ago that holidays and I don't mix well." I meet her eyes, daring her to push further. "She has Colt now. They're building their own traditions."
Kelsie studies me, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "It's hard when dates on a calendar carry so much weight, isn't it? When a perfectly ordinary day becomes a minefield of memories and expectations just because of its place in December."
Her insight catches me by surprise. "Speaking from experience?"
