Page 9 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"I eat whatever's convenient," I admit. "Don't cook much."
"Cooking for one isn't very inspiring," she agrees. "After Marcus left, I lived on cereal and takeout for months."
"Marcus is your ex?"
She nods, poking at her remaining risotto. "Ex husband. Ex literary agent. Ex professor. Ex lots of things."
"He was your professor?" Something about that doesn't sit right with me.
"Creative writing. Undergraduate program." She shrugs, but I can see tension in her shoulders. "Classic story. Impressionable student. Charismatic teacher. He wasn't supposed to date students, but I'd graduated by the time we got together officially. At least, that's what we told people."
My law enforcement instincts buzz with warning flags. "How old were you?"
"Twenty-one when we started dating. Twenty-three when we married." She meets my eyes, understanding my concern. "The age gap wasn't the problem. It was the power imbalance. He discovered me, shaped my career, controlled my writing. By the end, I couldn't tell which thoughts were mine and which were his."
I've seen this pattern before in domestic cases. The gradual erosion of identity. The subtle control masked as guidance or protection.
"How long were you married?"
"Three years. Divorced two months ago." She takes a deep breath. "Anyway, that's my sad backstory. What's yours?"
The abrupt question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
She tilts her head. "Sheriff Tom Parker. Raising a daughter alone in a small town. No decorations despite Christmas being weeks away. Letting a stranger stay in your guest room rather than your perfectly good rental cabin." She ticks these off on her fingers. "There's a story there."
"Not much of one." I stand, gathering our empty plates. "Wife left sixteen years ago. Raised my daughter. End of story."
Kelsie watches me with those perceptive eyes that seem to see more than I want them to. "Christmas time," she says softly. "That's why you don't decorate, isn't it?"
I freeze, plates in hand. How does she know that?
"It’s a small town," she answers my unspoken question. "People talk. Especially when they learn I'm staying with the sheriff."
Anger flares briefly. "Who's been gossiping about me?"
"No one specific." She backpedals quickly. "Just general observations. I'm a writer. I notice patterns."
I want to press further, demand names, but the genuine concern in her expression defuses my anger. She's not being malicious. Just curious. And perhaps a little too perceptive for comfort.
"It's not a big deal," I say, turning away to rinse the dishes. "Christmas is just commercial nonsense anyway."
"Of course." She starts clearing the remaining dishes, moving around my kitchen with unexpected grace. "For what it's worth, I think raising a daughter alone after that kind of abandonment takes incredible strength."
The simple acknowledgment hits me harder than expected. Most people in town either pretend nothing happened or treat me like I might shatter if they mention Caroline. Kelsie's straightforward recognition feels oddly validating.
"Savannah did most of the work," I say gruffly. "Growing up, I mean. She's stronger than I ever was."
"Sounds like she takes after her father."
Before I can respond to that unexpected assessment, my phone rings. Savannah's ringtone.
"Speaking of," I mutter, answering the call. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Dad." Her voice carries that mixture of exasperation and affection I've come to expect. "I've been calling the station all afternoon. Rodriguez says you left early."
"Had some things to take care of at home," I say vaguely, aware of Kelsie pretending not to listen as she loads the dishwasher.
"Home? Since when do you leave work early to go home?" Suspicion colors her tone. "Is everything okay?"
