Page 23 of Mountain Man's Naughty List
Her eyes shine, and for a terrifying second I think she might cry.
“You idiot,” she whispers. “I love you too.”
“Then why did you want me to leave?”
“I didn’t want you to miss your game tomorrow and throw away your career.”
“And here I was thinking you’d just gotten sick of babysitting me.”
“Never.” She laughs then, tears slipping free, and the sound knocks the breath from me. “I really do love you, Thatcher. Even when you’re impossible.”
“Especially when I’m impossible,” I correct.
“Maybe a little.”
I pull her close, and the crowd around us blurs into a halo of gold and green. Someone starts a countdown to light the big tree outside. Voices rise, a hundred people shouting “Three, two, one—” and then the lights blaze to life through the windows, reflecting in her eyes as I kiss her.
The world narrows to heat and pine and the faint taste of cocoa on her lips. Applause ripples through the room—whether for the tree or the kiss, I don’t know, and don’t care.
Later, after the crowd thins and music drifts to softer carols, we stand near the window watching snow fall under the glow of the tree outside.
“Coach gave me a speech before I left,” I say. “Said maybe Christmas isn’t a place—it’s a person.”
Liz smiles. “Smart man, your coach.”
“Yeah.” I slip my arm around her waist, pull her close. “Turns out he was right.”
Across the room, Stevie raises her glass in a silent toast. Grady claps me on the back as he passes. My teammates pretend not to watch but grin anyway. For once, everything feels exactly like it should.
I tilt my head toward her. “So, what’s next on the list?”
She laughs, low and warm. “You still working on it?”
“Always.” I pat my pocket. “But I think it’s missing a line.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” I take out a pen from the check-in desk, scrawl something new at the bottom, and hand it to her.
She reads aloud, voice barely above a whisper. “#11 – Make it last.”
Her eyes lift to mine, bright as the tree behind us. “Think you can manage that?”
“I’m planning on it.” I lean down, kiss her again, slow and certain. “Merry Christmas, Liz.”
“Merry Christmas, Thatcher.”
The band in the corner shifts intoSilent Night.Someone passes out candles; the lights dim until the room glows with hundreds of tiny flames. Voices rise, familiar and full. Liz’s hand squeezes mine as we sing.
And in that perfect hush, with her shoulder against my chest and the echo of the crowd around us, I finally understand what Coach meant.
Christmas isn’t a place or a time of year. It’s a person.
And I’m holding on to mine.
EPILOGUE
NEXT CHRISTMAS EVE
