Page 1 of Mountain Man Grinch
Chapter
One
DAVIN
Idon’t do Christmas.
I don’t do lights. I don’t do carols. No mistletoe, no tinsel, no fire-hazard tree dropping needles across my floor. No socks, no Santa, and definitely no Elf on the Shelf.
It’s a rule set that makes the season ache. Maybe it’s the name—Grimshaw—or the Army that taught me to never give up, never back down, never celebrate. Either way, I learned the hard way that holidays are a kind of loneliness disguised as cheer.
Pine smoke threads the air. Frost etches the windows. Clouds touch the ground thick like soup, and the world is white on white at six thousand feet. The trees sag under snow that could swallow a truck. When the fog lifts, everything will glitter so hard you’ll go blind. Today? The colors are on strike.
My phone buzzes.
MCGREGOR: Incoming
ME: Copy
MCGREGOR: Thanks, Man
ME: Family first. She’s safe with me. Focus on your honeymoon
MCGREGOR: Roger that
Bang—bang—bang. I jump to my feet. At the door, she’s a soaked, shivering little storm: mouth full of lipstick, hair the color of berries, and a purse with a rat the size of a traffic cone. Arielle McGregor. Curvy, furious, and very muchnotdressed for the backcountry.
“Inside,” I say. She slides past me, muttering thanks, and the dog starts to bark like it’s got a vendetta against the couch. I shut the door and pretend I didn’t just want to kiss her, sealing the cold outside and the chaos inside.
“What happened to rendezvousing in town upon arrival?” I scowl.
“Plans changed …suddenly.”
The purse rat yaps again, high-pitched enough to chip ice.
“What the hell is that thing?” I growl.
She clutches the tiny beast like it’s a newborn. “That’s Gus.”
“Gus?” I stare. “That’s a man’s name. For a dog that fits in a glove compartment.”
Her chin lifts. “He has a big personality.”
“Sure,” I mutter, “so does rabies.”
She gasps. I can practically hear the clutching of pearls, except she’s too modern for pearls—just wet jeans, a pink coat, and righteous fury.
“Look,” I say, jerking a thumb toward the hearth. “You’re soaked. Dry off before you turn into an icicle.”
She plops onto my couch, dripping all over it. Snowmelt pools on the rug. My left eye twitches.
“For God’s sake, could you maybe melt by the fire next time?”
She blinks up at me, innocent as sin. “Sorry. Do you hand out towels, or should I just sit here and evaporate?”
The sass. Fuck.
I grab a towel, toss it at her, and get another for the floor. She catches hers—barely—and gives me a look that says I’ve failed every hospitality test since nineteen forty-two.
