Page 24 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
I won't chase him—his fears are real, and he needs time to process them. But I won't let him convince himself that what we've found isn't worth fighting for, either.
The New Year's Eve celebration is less than a week away. The bonfire, the dancing, the midnight fireworks—all the joy and community spirit that I love and he fears. A perfect symbol of the divide between us.
It would be easy for him to hide in his cabin that night, to use the crowds and noise as an excuse. But if he comes down from his mountain, braves the celebration, it will mean something. It will mean he's willing to try.
And if he doesn't? If he chooses isolation over the chance of love?
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of my apartment. I'll have my answer then. And somehow, I'll have to find a way to accept it, even if it breaks my heart.
But until then, I refuse to believe that the man who carved this pendant, who held me through the night, who looked at me like I was his salvation, doesn't feel what I feel.
He just needs time to accept that he deserves it.
CHAPTER NINE
AARON
The mountain is silent except for the rhythmic sound of my ax splitting wood. Snow falls around me, heavy flakes that catch in my beard and melt on my overheated skin despite the bitter cold. I've been at this for hours, chopping far more wood than I need, trying to exhaust my body enough that my mind might finally quiet.
It's not working.
Every swing of the ax brings Leah's face to mind. Her eyes bright with unshed tears. Her voice steady despite the pain I could hear beneath her words. The wooden pendant I carved resting against her skin as she told me she loved me even as I walked away.
I've spent the last twenty four hours alone in my cabin, alternating between rage and regret. Rage at the town council for their plans to invade my sanctuary. Regret for the things I said to Leah, the accusations I hurled in my anger, the way I questioned everything between us.
Swing. Split. Stack.
The routine that once brought peace now only highlights its absence. The silence that once soothed now feels empty. Hollow.
Like me.
I embed the ax in the chopping block with more force than necessary and turn toward the cabin. Inside, the fire has burned low, the room growing cold in my absence. Like everything else when not tended properly.
I add logs to the grate, watching flames lick at the fresh wood, remembering how Leah looked in this same firelight on Christmas Eve, her face soft with affection as she told me she loved me.
Love. Such a simple word for such a complicated emotion. One I'd convinced myself I didn't deserve after surviving when my team didn't.
But Leah offered it freely, asking nothing in return except time. Time I was willing to give until that notice arrived and fear took over.
Fear of losing control. Fear of strangers invading the space that has been my refuge. Fear of opening myself to the possibility that she might be using me.
I know better now. The clarity of a sleepless night and the stark reality of my cabin without her have made that much obvious. Leah Jones is many things—stubborn, passionate, committed to her community—but manipulative isn't one of them.
She loves with her whole heart. Acts with clear purpose. Speaks her truth even when it's difficult.
And I threw that back in her face because I was scared. Because trusting someone after years of isolation felt more dangerous than any battlefield I've encountered.
The fire catches properly, warmth beginning to push back the chill in the cabin. On the mantle above it sits the framedphotograph she gave me for Christmas—the carousel at sunset, a moment of beauty captured forever.
Beside it, my new sketchbook with its inscription: "For the man who sees beauty in the grain of the wood. May you find joy in creating simply for the sake of creation. With love, Leah."
With love.
My gaze shifts to the clock on the wall. Six thirty on New Year's Eve. The town celebration will be starting soon. Leah will be there, directing volunteers, ensuring everything runs smoothly, embodying the community spirit that makes her who she is.
The same community spirit I resented because it threatened my carefully constructed isolation.
I move to the windows facing town. Even from this distance, I can see lights glowing in the town square. Music carries faintly on the cold air, along with the sounds of laughter and celebration.
