Page 4 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
The morning light streams through curtains that have clearly never been changed since the house was built. Everything in this room feels frozen in time, from the faded floral wallpaper to the antique dresser with mismatched knobs. Nothing like the sterile, modern apartment I left behind in San Diego.
I stretch and grab my glasses from the nightstand, shoving them on my face before reaching for my laptop. The blank document titled "Chapter One" stares accusingly at me, the cursor blinking like a metronome counting the eight months I haven't written a single word.
"Just write something," I mutter to myself. "Anything. Even if it's garbage."
But my fingers hover motionless above the keyboard, paralyzed by the same creative block that's plagued me since the divorce. The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Marcus, my ex husband slash former literary agent.
This smut you write is embarrassing. You have real talent. Why waste it on pornography for bored housewives?
I slam the laptop closed, my breathing too fast and shallow. Three books published, all successful, and I still hear his voice critiquing every potential word. The irony is, he's the one who first encouraged me to write romance. Discovered me in his creative writing class, dated me, married me, represented me. Then systematically tried to mold me into the kind of "literary" author he could brag about at cocktail parties.
The smell of coffee breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Real coffee, not the instant stuff I packed for my writing retreat. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner last night in the chaos of arriving early and dealing with the heating crisis.
I throw on my least embarrassing sweats and attempt to tame my curls into submission before venturing downstairs. Tom’s house is larger than I expected, with high ceilings and beautiful woodwork that speaks of craftsmanship from another era. It would be warm and inviting if not for the complete absence of personal touches. No photos on the walls. No decorations. Nothing that would indicate Christmas is just weeks away.
I follow the coffee scent to a spacious kitchen that looks barely used. Tom stands with his back to me, uniform already on despite the early hour, methodically dropping bread into a toaster.
"Good morning," I say, wincing at how my voice carries in the quiet space.
He turns, coffee mug in hand, expression unreadable. "Morning. Coffee's fresh if you want some."
"God, yes. Please." I move toward the pot like it contains the elixir of life. "I'm completely useless without caffeine."
One corner of his mouth twitches upward, not quite a smile but the closest thing to it I've seen on his face. "Mugs in the cabinet above."
I pour myself a cup, adding a generous splash of cream from the carton he's left on the counter. When I take my first sip, I can't hold back an appreciative moan. "This is excellent coffee. Way better than what I packed."
"Property management checked the cabin heater this morning," he says, ignoring my coffee enthusiasm. "It needs a replacement part that won't arrive until next week. Maybe longer with the holiday shipping delays."
"Oh." The implications sink in. "So I'll need to find somewhere else to stay?"
"You can stay here until it's fixed." He says this while staring intently at his toast, as if it requires his full concentration. "Guest room's just sitting empty anyway."
"I couldn't impose like that," I protest, though the thought of having to find a hotel in this tiny mountain town feels overwhelming. "I'm sure there must be somewhere in town I could stay temporarily."
"Nearest hotel is thirty minutes away in good weather. Whisper Vale Inn closed for renovations last month." He finally looks at me. "It's no trouble. I'm barely home anyway."
Something about his gruff hospitality touches me. He clearly values his solitude, yet he's offering his space to a complete stranger. To his therapist's rambling, disorganized sister.
"Thank you. That's incredibly kind." I take another sip of coffee. "I promise I won't get in your way."
He grunts something that might be acknowledgment and slides a piece of toast with avocado slices toward me. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."
I want to be offended, but he's not wrong. The divorce diet, as my friends in San Diego call it. Months of stress and creative frustration have whittled away at my usually healthy appetite.
"I was thinking of going into town today," I say, accepting the toast. "Is there a coffee shop where I can set up and work for a few hours? Sometimes a change of scenery helps me write."
"The Grind on Main Street. Decent coffee, good wifi." He rinses his mug in the sink. "I'm heading that way if you want a ride. Cabin's too far to walk in this weather."
"That would be great, actually." I glance down at my sweatpants. "Just give me fifteen minutes to get ready?"
He checks his watch. "I leave in ten."
I shovel the avocado toast into my mouth and bolt upstairs, throwing on the least wrinkled clothes I can find. Jeans, a soft green sweater, boots that are more fashionable than practical for mountain weather. I grab my laptop, notebooks, and the research books I'd carefully selected for this trip, stuffing everything into my oversized bag.
Nine minutes and forty seconds later, I'm standing by the front door, slightly breathless but ready. Tom raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected me to make him wait.
"What?" I adjust my glasses. "When someone says ten minutes, I assume they actually mean ten minutes."
