Page 5 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"Most people don't," he says, opening the door for me.
The morning air steals my breath. San Diego has not prepared me for Nevada mountain temperatures in December.
Tom notices my reaction. "There's a spare coat in the hall closet if you need it."
"I'm fine," I lie, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's invigorating."
He gives me a look that clearly communicates he thinks I'm being ridiculous but fetches a coat anyway, holding it open for me. It's at least three sizes too big and smells like cedar.
"Thanks," I mumble, swimming in the oversized jacket but immediately grateful for its warmth.
His patrol SUV sits in the driveway, official and imposing. He opens the passenger door for me, another gesture that seems automatic rather than calculated to impress.
As we drive through the winding mountain roads toward town, I steal glances at his profile. In the morning light, I notice details I missed last night. The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples. The lines around his eyes that speak of squinting into the sun. The way his jaw seems permanently set in determination.
"How long have you been sheriff?" I ask, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"Twenty years as sheriff. Twenty-five with the department."
"Wow. So you must know everyone in town."
"It's a small town."
"Do you like it? Being sheriff, I mean."
He glances at me, then back at the road. "It's the job."
"That's not really an answer," I point out.
"It's the answer you're getting," he says, but without any real heat.
We lapse into silence again. Outside the window, the scenery is breathtaking. Pine trees dusted with frost, mountains rising majestically in the distance, an occasional cabin nestled in the woods like something from a holiday card.
"It's beautiful here," I say softly. "Peaceful."
"That why you came? For peace?"
Something in his tone tells me he's genuinely curious, not just making small talk. "Partly. Mostly I needed space to write. Away from distractions."
"What kind of distractions?"
"Ex husband. Career pressure. The usual." I fiddle with the zipper on my borrowed coat. "I haven't written anythingsubstantial in eight months. My editor is threatening to drop me if I don't deliver something soon."
I'm not sure why I'm telling him this. Something about his silent presence makes it easy to fill the space with words, like pouring water into an empty vessel.
"Writer's block," he says, surprising me by acknowledging what I've shared.
"The worst case imaginable." I sigh dramatically. "Hence the last minute escape to the mountains. New surroundings. No pressure. Just me and my laptop and endless cups of coffee."
"And a broken heater," he adds dryly.
"And a broken heater," I agree with a laugh. "Plus an unexpected roommate."
"Temporary roommate," he corrects.
"Right. Temporary." For some reason, the clarification stings a little.
We reach town, a charming main street lined with shops decorated for the holidays. Christmas lights twinkle from every storefront. A massive pine tree stands in the town square, waiting to be decorated for what I assume is an upcoming tree lighting ceremony.
