Page 26 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
I should be protecting myself from the inevitable pain when she returns to her real life. But I can’t even pretend that’s what I want. Sighing, I tighten my arm around her sleeping form as a silent promise to savor whatever time we have. I’ll worry about the future tomorrow.
For tonight, she's here. Warm and real and trusting in my arms. And for the first time in sixteen years, that feels like enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KELSIE
Iwake slowly, awareness returning in gentle waves. Unfamiliar weight across my waist. Warmth at my back. The steady rhythm of someone else's breathing.
Tom.
Memories of last night flood my consciousness. His mouth on mine under the mistletoe. The walk home through gently falling snow. The way he looked at me as if I were something precious when I stood naked before him. The unexpected tenderness in his touch, as if he were memorizing every inch of me.
I keep my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of being held. It's been so long since I've felt safe in someone's arms. Marcus treated intimacy like a transaction, something I owed him rather than something we shared. Even in sleep, he maintained his distance, retreating to his side of the bed the moment he was satisfied.
Tom sleeps like he does everything else, with complete commitment. One arm wrapped firmly around my waist, his body curved protectively around mine, his breath warm againstmy neck. Even unconscious, he holds me like he's afraid I might disappear.
I carefully shift to face him, not wanting to wake him but needing to see his face. In sleep, the perpetual vigilance softens from his features. The furrow between his brows smooths out. The firm set of his mouth relaxes. He looks younger, more vulnerable, and impossibly handsome.
My heart swells with something I'm not ready to name. It's too soon, too overwhelming. Yet I can't deny that in just over a week, Tom Parker has become more important to me than I ever expected. This arrangement was supposed to be temporary. Convenient. Uncomplicated.
None of those words apply anymore.
His eyes flutter open, catching me watching him. For a moment, uncertainty crosses his features, as if he's remembering where he is, who I am, what happened between us. Then his eyes clear, and a slow smile transforms his face.
"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I resist the urge to touch his face, uncertain of the rules in this new territory we've entered. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in years." He makes no such attempt at restraint, his hand coming up to brush a wayward curl from my cheek. "You?"
"Like a rock," I admit. "No talking in my sleep?"
"Not that I heard." His smile widens. "Though you do snore."
"Only a little." I smile back, something warm and buoyant expanding in my chest. "More like gentle thunder than a chainsaw."
His laugh, still rare enough to feel like a gift, rumbles through the quiet room. His hand settles at my waist, thumb tracing idle circles on my skin through the borrowed t shirt I slipped on sometime in the night.
"What time is it?" I ask, reluctant to break the moment but aware of responsibilities beyond this bed.
He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "Almost nine."
"Nine?" I bolt upright. "I never sleep this late. I have writing to do. You probably have sheriff duties."
"It's Sunday." His hand tugs me gently back down. "It’s a day of rest. Even for sheriffs and writers."
I allow myself to be pulled back into his embrace, surprised by how easily I yield to the suggestion. Normally, I'm up by six, anxious to make the most of my productive hours. But nothing about my time in Whisper Vale has been normal.
"I've written more in the past week than in the previous eight months," I tell him, settling against his chest. "Whatever creative drought I was experiencing is definitely over."
"Glad to hear it." His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine. "This book about the divorced artist finding love with the grumpy mountain local?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "It might bear some resemblance to recent experiences."
"Should I be worried about how it ends?" There's humor in his voice, but something else beneath it. Vulnerability, perhaps.
"I haven't decided yet." I trace the outline of a small scar on his chest. "Still figuring out if these two stubborn people can overcome their fears and pasts."
