Page 19 of Noel with the Mountain Man
"Good. Definitely good." I kiss the top of her head. "She'll love you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I love you."
The words hang in the air between us. Too soon, maybe. Too fast. But also completely, undeniably true.
Noel turns in my arms, her eyes searching mine. "Say that again."
"I love you." The words come easier the second time. "I know it's fast. I know we're supposed to take it slow. But I love you, Noel. I think I started falling the moment you walked through that door."
"Good," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "Because I love you too. So much it terrifies me."
"Then we'll be terrified together."
She laughs through her tears, and I kiss her—slow and deep and full of promise.
Later, when we're lying in bed watching the firelight dance on the ceiling, she says, "What happens after this?"
"We figure it out." I tighten my arm around her. "Nashville. Lexington. Wherever. We make it work."
"That simple?"
"That simple." I turn to look at her. "I'm not letting you go, Noel. Not after finding you. So we'll figure out the logistics. Together."
"Together," she agrees, smiling. "I really like that word."
"Me too."
She curls closer, her breathing gradually evening out as she drifts off. But I stay awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling and marveling at how much can change in a few days.
I came here to hide from Christmas. From life. From feeling anything at all.
Instead, I found everything I didn't know I was missing.
And tomorrow, we'll start building a life that lasts.
Epilogue
Noel
OneYearLater
It’s our first Christmas together as husband and wife. Frost dusts the backyard like sugar, glittering in the pale morning light. Inside, the house smells like cinnamon and cedar.
Kyler’s workshop lights glow through the back door, a golden square against the gray December sky. I can hear faint music and the steady hum of his sander. He promised he’d only be a few more minutes, but “a few minutes” in Kyler-time usually means an hour.
I pour two mugs of cocoa—his with extra marshmallows, mine with peppermint—and glance around the living room. The tree leans a little to the left, and our popcorn garland looks like something my kindergarteners made during arts and crafts.
I couldn’t love it more.
A moment later, the back door opens and a rush of cold air follows Kyler inside. He’s dusted with sawdust, cheeks pink fromthe chill, eyes shining the way they always do when he’s made something with his hands.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“Kyler…”
“No peeking.”
