Page 28 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
"Like what?" I ask innocently.
"Like you're remembering last night." His hand at my waist tightens possessively. "Or planning a repeat performance."
"Maybe I am." I rise on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "Maybe I can't stop thinking about how you looked above me, those tattoos shifting with each thrust, your eyes never leaving mine as you made me come."
His sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying. "Three hours," he growls quietly. "This event lasts three hours, and then I'm taking you home."
"Promises, promises." I step back with a wink. "But first, we have children to entertain, money to raise, and sleigh rides to conduct."
He groans but releases me, adjusting his stance in a way that makes me bite back a laugh. Two years together, and I still affect him this way. The knowledge is heady, powerful.
As Aaron heads outside to prepare for the first sleigh rides, I walk through the space one final time, checking details. The vendor booths are set up, selling everything from handcrafted ornaments to hot chocolate. The performance area is ready for the children's choir. The donation station is organized with information about the children's hospital in Billings.
Everything is perfect, and nothing like the chaotic meadow event from two years ago. We've learned, grown, evolved—just like our relationship.
The doors open, and families begin streaming in, exclaiming over the decorations, the carousel, the festive atmosphere.I greet them, directing children toward activities, answering questions, watching joy spread across small faces.
Through the windows, I can see Aaron helping a little girl into the sleigh, his large hands gentle as he tucks a blanket around her legs. His beard is fuller now, streaked with a few strands of silver at the temples, but his smile is so much freer than it was when we met. So much more frequent.
The changes in our lives over the past two years have been nothing short of miraculous. The Aaron Wilson who once valued isolation above all else now teaches woodworking classes at the community center twice a month. The mountain cabin that was once his fortress against the world is now our home, expanded to include a studio for my design work alongside his woodshop.
We've found the perfect balance—weekdays engaged with the community, weekends retreating to our mountain sanctuary when the need for quiet becomes too great. Aaron still has days when the memories weigh heavily, when he needs space and silence, but he no longer faces those demons alone.
And I've changed too. I've learned the value of solitude, of quiet moments by the fire with nothing but the sound of Aaron's breathing beside me. I've discovered that my need to organize and help can sometimes be overwhelming to others, that not every problem needs to be solved immediately.
We've taught each other balance. Compromise. Growth.
The afternoon passes in a whirl of activity. Children ride the carousel, their laughter the sweetest music. Parents browse vendor booths, purchasing handcrafted gifts. The children's choir performs Christmas carols, their young voices filling the space with joy.
Through it all, I catch glimpses of Aaron—helping a child onto a carousel horse, chatting with Mayor Johnston about the spring fishing tournament, conducting another sleigh ride through the snow-covered streets.
My mountain man. My husband. Still grumpy sometimes, still preferring quiet to chaos, but no longer hiding from life. No longer a recluse, but a man who has found his place in the world again.
As the event winds down and the last families depart, I find myself standing beside the carousel, running my hand over the smooth wood of one particular horse—the one Aaron carved himself as part of the restoration, its mane flowing with the same intricate pattern as the pendant I still wear every day.
"Ready to go home?"
I turn to find him watching me, snow dusting his dark hair, cheeks ruddy from the cold. The sight of him still takes my breath away.
"Almost," I say, reaching for his hand. "I have something to tell you first."
His expression turns curious. "Everything okay?"
"Everything is perfect." I guide his hand to my stomach, watching his eyes widen as understanding dawns. "I was going to wait until Christmas morning to tell you, but I can't hold it in anymore."
"Leah," he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you saying..."
"We're having a baby." The words I've been holding in for two weeks finally spill out, joy bubbling through me. "Due in July."
For a moment, he seems frozen, his hand warm against my still flat stomach. Then he pulls me into his arms, lifting me off my feet in an embrace that conveys everything words cannot.
When he sets me down, his eyes are suspiciously bright. "A baby," he repeats, wonderment in his voice. "We're going to be parents."
"Terrifying, isn't it?" I say with a shaky laugh.
"Terrifying. Amazing." He cups my face in his hands. "Perfect."
He kisses me then, deep and thorough, pouring all his emotion into the connection. When we break apart, both breathless, he rests his forehead against mine.
