Page 7 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"I won't say anything," I promise, mind racing with this new context.
She squeezes my shoulder before moving to serve other customers, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Sheriff Tom Parker. Abandoned by his wife two weeks before Christmas. Raised his daughter alone. Hasn't let anyone into his home in sixteen years.
Until me.
I look down at my blank document, then out the window toward the sheriff's station. For the first time in eight months, words begin to flow. Not the book my editor is expecting. Not the literary fiction Marcus wanted me to write.
Something new. Something about a grumpy sheriff with walls around his heart and the sunshine he never expected to break through them.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, the cursor finally moving forward instead of deleting. By the time I text Tom hours later, I've written more than I have in months.
Maybe Whisper Vale is exactly what I needed after all.
CHAPTER THREE
TOM
Rodriguez looks like he's seen a ghost when I walk into the station carrying two coffee cups from The Grind.
"Morning," I grunt, heading straight for my office.
"Morning, Sheriff." His eyes track the seconbyd coffee all the way to my door. "Meeting someone?"
I don't answer. Let him wonder. The whole department's been walking on eggshells around me since December hit, treating me like I might snap if they mention anything remotely festive. I'm used to it.
What I'm not used to is buying coffee for writers with wild curly hair and coffee-stained manuscript pages. Yet here I am, setting the extra cup on my desk while I sort through the morning's incident reports.
It's been three days since Kelsie Walsh invaded my life. Three days of her presence slowly filling my house with an energy I'd forgotten homes could have. She hums while she makes tea. Leaves notebooks in random places. Talks to herself when she thinks I'm not listening.
I should hate it. Instead, I note her habits, cataloging them like evidence. The way she pushes her glasses up her nose when she's thinking. How she curls into the corner of the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees. The sound of her laughter when she reads something that amuses her.
My phone pings with a message from her.
Kelsie:Is that coffee for me? Because if it is, you're officially my hero.
I glanceout my office window. Sure enough, she's across the street at The Grind, waving enthusiastically through the window. How she spotted the coffee on my desk from that distance is beyond me, but Kelsie notices everything. It's both unsettling and oddly flattering.
Me: Working until noon. Deputy can bring it over if you want.
Three dots appear immediately.
Kelsie:I’m only teasing. I’m the one sitting in a coffee shop. I'll be writing here all morning. Thank you though! You're the best temporary roommate ever!
She usesexclamation points like they're going extinct. Every message is a riot of enthusiasm and gratitude that leaves me slightly breathless, as if I've been running uphill. How someonecan maintain that level of energy while confessing she hasn't slept properly in days is beyond me.
Last night I found her in the kitchen at 2 AM, baking cookies. "Stress baking," she explained without looking up from the mixer. "I do it when I can't write. The words won't come, but at least cookies will."
I'd stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure whether to retreat or offer help. Before I could decide, she'd handed me a warm cookie and started talking about character motivations as if we were in the middle of a conversation rather than meeting in my kitchen in the middle of the night.
The memory makes me realize I'm staring at my phone with what might actually be a smile on my face. I quickly school my expression back to neutral as Rodriguez knocks on my door frame.
"Got a situation at the Johnson's place," he says. "Dispute over Christmas lights."
"Again?" I grab my jacket. "Those two are going to kill each other over inflatable snowmen someday."
"Neighborly spirit," Rodriguez quips as we head to the patrol car.
