Page 31 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
She opens the door, but I catch her arm. "Wait. Let me check it out first."
"I can handle a power outage, Owen."
"Humor me."
She sighs but relents, closing the door as I get out and walk toward her cabin. The snow is coming down harder now, already accumulating on the ground. I try the porch light switch. Nothing.
"Power's out," I confirm when I return to the truck. "Probably the storm. I have a generator."
"I've got candles," she says, reaching for the door handle again. "I'll be fine."
"Lettie, it's twenty degrees out and dropping. You've got no heat."
"I'll bundle up. I have a ton of quilts."
I shake my head. "Don't be stubborn. You're staying with me."
"I am not."
"Yes, you are." I put the truck in gear and drive the short distance to my cabin. "It's either that or freeze."
She crosses her arms. "Aren't you worried I'll infect your space with Christmas cheer?"
Despite the situation, I almost smile. "I'll risk it for one night."
She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Fine. But I'm sleeping on the couch."
"The hell you are. You take the bed. I'll take the couch."
"I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."
"You're not kicking me anywhere. I'm offering." I park and kill the engine. "End of discussion."
She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "bossy mountain man" under her breath, but grabs her bag and follows me to the door.
When I flip on the lights, I suddenly see my cabin through her eyes. Sparse furnishings. No decorations. Bare walls. Nothing personal, except a couple of bottles of bourbon and some books.
"It's... nice," she says, clearly struggling to find something positive to say.
"It's functional," I correct, taking her coat. "I don't need much."
She sets her bag on the counter and immediately starts unpacking it, pulling out a container of what looks like fudge, another of cookies, a bag of kettle corn, and various other festival foods.
"Were you planning to feed an army?" I ask, watching as she arranges everything neatly.
"I like to sample everything," she says with a shrug. "Want some?"
Before I can answer, she continues unpacking, pulling out paper cups, napkins, and finally, the ornaments she bought.
She holds it up, examining it in the light. "This place needs a tree."
"No, it doesn't."
"Every home needs a tree at Christmas."
"This is a cabin, not a home. And I don't do Christmas trees."
She tilts her head, studying me. "Have you ever had one? Your own tree, I mean."
