Page 25 of The Bear's Christmas Wish
Sarah accepted the tin, surprised to find homemade shortbread inside. “Thank you.”
The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the rising howl of the wind outside. She searched for something to say, something that wouldn’t sound ridiculous or too personal.
“How long have you run the farm?” The question came out stilted, formal.
“Since my dad retired five years ago.” His answer was equally brief.
Sarah winced inwardly. She sounded like an HR form, not a woman stranded in a cabin with a man who made her pulse quicken. The conversation died again as Michael shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on a peg by the door.
Her breath caught as she watched him roll up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms marked with small scars, evidence of years working with trees and tools. There was something undeniably attractive about a man who knew how to use his hands, who could build a perfect fire with one match and guide her safely through a blizzard.
“What feels like Christmas to you?” Michael asked suddenly, his voice soft as he poured hot water into two mugs.
The unexpected question made her smile. “Hot cocoa around the Christmas tree,” she answered honestly. “That’s what we did last night after the town square tree...” She trailed off, surprised by how easily the words had come.
“Christmas carols for me,” Michael said, handing her a steaming mug. “My mom sings them as she bakes. As soon as December comes around, so do the carols.”
The simple admission revealed more about him than any resume could have. Sarah sipped her coffee, letting the warmth spread through her chest.
“Favorite job tool?” he asked, settling into the chair across from her.
She thought for a moment. “A soft pencil. The 6B kind that smudges easily. There’s something about sketching by hand that digital can never replace.”
“A whetstone,” he replied. “Nothing feels quite as satisfying as bringing a dull edge back to life.”
The wind gusted against the cabin, rattling the windows. Michael stood and crossed to a small chest, pulling out a flannel shirt that had been folded neatly inside.
“For your lap,” he offered. “It gets cold by the window.”
She accepted the makeshift blanket, touched by the thoughtfulness. The flannel smelled faintly of pine and something else…something uniquely him. She spread it across her legs, then pushed the tin of cookies toward him.
“Please have some. They’re delicious.”
He took one with a nod of thanks, and they fell into a more comfortable silence. The storm raged outside, but here, in this small cabin with its crackling fire and the scent of coffee and pine, Sarah felt strangely at peace.
“Why Bear Creek?” Michael asked after a while, his voice gentle but curious.
Sarah hesitated, her fingers tightening around her mug. She’d prepared a polished answer for casual acquaintances, butsomething about his direct gaze made her want to offer more truth.
“I moved because Emmy needed...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Routine I couldn’t build alone. After the divorce, everything felt like quicksand. Bear Creek, and my mom, felt like solid ground.”
She kept it simple, no ex-bashing, but she saw in Michael’s eyes that he understood what she wasn’t saying. How the weight of starting over, of rebuilding a life from scattered pieces, was one she wasn’t sure she could lift on her own.
“And you?” she asked. “Why a tree farm?”
He considered the question with the same care he’d given to building the fire. “I like things that last,” he finally said. “The trees teach patience. You plant something knowing you might not be around to see it fully grown. There’s something magical about that.”
Sarah nodded, feeling a flutter of connection. This was a man who thought in decades, not days.
“You’re very thoughtful,” she said, the words stumbling a bit. “Is that something your father taught you?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, a small smile touching his lips. “He taught me trees. My mom taught me to bake.”
Sarah’s gaze drifted away, her throat suddenly tight. Michael’s parents meant a lot to him. She swallowed hard, thinking of Emmy. “I feel so guilty that Emmy will never have that again. You know, both her mom and dad under the same roof.”
“You shouldn’t carry that guilt,” Michael told her gently. “It’s obvious how much you love her. You wouldn’t have gotten a divorce if you didn’t believe it was the right thing for you and her.”
The silence stretched between them, and Sarah felt the weight of her admission settling in the small space. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but something about Michael’s steady presence made honesty feel safer than small talk.
