On the coffee table rests a well-worn sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils. The page is open to a detailed drawing of an eagle in flight, the craftsmanship remarkable in its precision and artistry.
"You draw," I say before I can stop myself.
He stiffens slightly but doesn't turn around. "Sometimes."
"That eagle is incredible."
This time he doesn't respond at all, and I mentally kick myself. Clearly, I've crossed some invisible boundary. Note to self: complimenting Aaron Wilson's artistic talents is apparently a violation of mountain man code.
The kettle whistles, breaking the awkward silence. He pours the hot water over the coffee grounds and brings the French press to the coffee table, followed by two mugs.
"It needs to steep," he says, retreating to an armchair opposite me rather than joining me on the sofa.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful for the warmth and the coffee to come. "I appreciate this."
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. "Why is this event so important to you?"
The question catches me off guard. It's the most personal thing he's asked since I arrived.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, considering how to answer. "My sister had leukemia when she was eight. She spent two Christmases in the hospital—one of them was her last."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens fractionally.
"The hospital in Billings treated her. They did everything they could, but the cancer was aggressive." I look down at my hands. "Every Christmas since then, I've tried to do something to make the holidays better for kids like her. When I moved to Grizzly Ridge last year and heard about the Community Foundation's work, I volunteered to head up their holiday fundraiser."
The timer on his phone chimes softly. He presses down the plunger on the French press and pours the dark coffee into the two mugs, sliding one across the table to me.
I wrap my cold fingers around the warm ceramic, inhaling the rich aroma. "This isn't just another charity event, Mr. Wilson. For some of these kids, it might be their last Christmas. I just want it to be magical."
Aaron takes a sip of his coffee, his face unreadable. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the popping of logs in the fireplace.
"You can use the road," he finally says, his deep voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I nearly spill my coffee. "What?"
"Two days." His eyes lock with mine, serious and intense. "You get two days to use the access road. Friday setup, Saturday event. You're done and cleared out by Sunday morning."
Joy bubbles up in my chest, but I try not to show too much triumph. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That's very?—"
"I have conditions," he interrupts. "No one comes near my cabin. You put up clear markers directing people straight to the meadow. And I want your personal guarantee that when it's over, I get my privacy back."
"Absolutely," I nod quickly. "I promise we won't disturb you any more than necessary."
He gives a curt nod, as if the matter is settled. "Drink your coffee. Then you're leaving."
I hide my smile behind my mug. Mission accomplished, even if my toes might never forgive me for the frostbite.
As I sip the perfectly brewed coffee, I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something in his gaze I can't quite decipher, something beyond the gruffness and irritation.
For just a moment, I wonder what secrets Aaron Wilson is keeping behind those storm-blue eyes and walls of solitude.
Then I remind myself it doesn't matter. I got what I came for. Two days of access to save our event.
I'll be out of his life by Sunday morning, and he can go back to being the mountain hermit of Grizzly Ridge.
End of story.
Or at least, that's what I tell myself.
