Page 27 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"And what does your professional assessment say?" His hand stills on my back. "As a romance writer."
"Romance stories always end with happily ever afters," I remind him. "Or at least happily for now."
"And does that transfer to real life?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implication. I raise my head to meet his eyes, finding them serious and searching.
"Real life is messier," I admit. "More complicated. But sometimes, if you're lucky, even better than fiction."
His eyes soften at that. He leans down to press his lips to mine, a gentle, almost reverent kiss that makes my toes curl. When he pulls back, I see something in his expression that both thrills and terrifies me.
"Hungry?" he asks, the mundane question grounding us back in the present.
"Starving." I stretch, feeling pleasantly sore in places I'd forgotten could feel anything at all. "Last night was quite the workout."
His gaze darkens at the reminder, and for a moment I think he might suggest breakfast can wait. Instead, he sits up, sheets pooling around his waist.
"Pancakes?" he suggests. "I make decent ones."
"Sheriff Parker cooks?" I raise an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Will wonders never cease."
"Don't get too excited." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, giving me an appreciation of his impressive back muscles. "Pancakes and bacon are about the extent of my culinary skills. Raised Savannah on them, though, so they must be passable."
I watch as he pulls on sweatpants, admiring the casual grace of his movements. "I'm sure they're wonderful."
"We'll see." He turns back to me, and the look on his face makes my breath catch. Like he's seeing something precious and unexpected. "Take your time. Bathroom's all yours."
After he leaves, I allow myself a moment to just breathe, to process the seismic shift that's occurred in my life. A week ago, I was a blocked writer with a failed marriage and a career in jeopardy. Now I'm in bed with a man who makes me feel things I never knew were possible, words flowing from my fingertips like magic, rediscovering parts of myself I thought were lost forever.
The bathroom mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize. My hair is a riot of curls, my lips slightly swollen from kisses, my eyes bright with something that looks suspiciously like happiness. There's a small mark on my neck, a reminder of Tom's enthusiasm that sends a thrill through my body.
I shower quickly, wrapping myself in one of Tom's oversized towels before venturing back to the bedroom. My clothes from last night are scattered across the floor. I gather them up, folding each item neatly, a small ritual to collect my thoughts.
The scent of coffee and bacon wafts up the stairs, domestic and inviting in a way that tugs at something deep inside me. I slip into fresh clothes, nothing fancy, just jeans and a soft sweater, but I take extra care with my hair, a small vanity I haven't bothered with in months.
Downstairs, I find Tom at the stove, his back to me, flipping pancakes with surprising skill. He's put on a t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, and his hair is still mussed from sleep and my fingers. The casualness of the scene makes my heart squeeze painfully.
"That smells incredible," I say, coming up behind him.
He turns, spatula in hand, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me makes my knees weak. "Coffee's fresh. Help yourself."
I pour a cup, then lean against the counter beside him, watching his hands as he works. They're large and capable, the same hands that touched me with such gentleness last night now expertly flipping pancakes.
"You're staring," he notes, though he doesn't seem displeased.
"Just appreciating the view." I sip my coffee, enjoying the slight flush my comment brings to his cheeks. "Never thought I'd see the stern sheriff making me breakfast after thoroughly ravishing me."
His eyebrows shoot up at my boldness, but his lips quirk in that almost smile I'm coming to adore. "Thoroughly, huh? Good to know."
We eat at the small kitchen table, knees touching underneath, the meal punctuated by glances that carry more meaning than words. The pancakes are, as promised, decent. The company makes them exceptional.
"Plans for today?" Tom asks as we clear the dishes together.
"I should write," I say, though the prospect of spending the day alone seems less appealing than usual. "The words are flowing, and I don't want to lose momentum."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "I have a few things I can check at the station. Nothing urgent."
An awkward silence falls, neither of us quite sure how to navigate this new territory. Are we spending the day together? Do we need space? The unspoken questions hang between us.
