Page 39 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"I can't believe it's real," she whispers, slicing through the tape. "After everything, it's actually happening."
The moment feels sacred as she lifts out the first copy of her novel. The cover art captures a snow covered cabin against mountain scenery, a woman standing on the porch while a tall figure approaches through falling snow. Her name bold across the top.
"'Finding Home,'" I read the title aloud, pride making my voice rough. "Looks good."
"Open it," she urges, pushing the book into my hands.
I flip to the dedication page and feel my throat tighten.
For Tom,who showed me that sometimes the longest journeys lead us exactly where we're meant to be. Thank you for making Whisper Vale my home.
When I look up,her eyes shine with unshed tears. "Too cheesy?" she asks, a hint of the old insecurity surfacing.
"Perfect," I correct her, pulling her close. "Just like its author."
The journey to this moment wasn't always smooth. There were adjustments to be made. Her apartment in San Diego sold after three months, her few belongings integrated into our shared space. My struggle to share decision making after years of solitary existence. Her occasional creative frenzies that turn nights into mornings and routine into spontaneity.
But we learned. We adapted. We chose each other every day, through disagreements and misunderstandings, through late night confessions and early morning compromises.
"I talked to Savannah earlier," Kelsie says, carefully setting her novel on the counter away from icing danger. "She's bringing that pecan pie you like, and Colt's handling the wine."
"Did she tell you their news?" I ask, curious if my daughter has shared what she told me yesterday.
"What news?" Kelsie's expression turns immediately intrigued.
"Not my place to tell," I say with a small smile. "But you might want to prepare yourself for some excitement tomorrow."
She narrows her eyes. "You're being deliberately mysterious, Sheriff."
"Just respecting confidences, Ms. Mason. Professional hazard."
Her mock glare dissolves into laughter. "Fine. I'll contain my curiosity until tomorrow."
The easy banter between us still feels like a gift. One I never expected to receive and certainly never felt I deserved.
Later, after the kitchen is cleaned and dinner shared, we sit together on the couch, lights from the Christmas tree casting multicolored patterns across the room. Kelsie curls against my side, her head resting on my shoulder as she reads from her latest work in progress.
Her voice rises and falls with the rhythm of her words, bringing characters to life in our living room. I listen, occasionally offering feedback or simply humming appreciation when a particular phrase captures something perfectly.
These quiet evenings have become my favorite part of our life together. The steady certainty of her presence. The knowledge that when we go upstairs, she'll be there in our bed, sometimes talking in her sleep, sometimes stealing blankets, always reaching for me even in unconsciousness.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, setting her manuscript aside. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're feeling something but trying to decide if you should say it out loud." Her perception remains unnervingly accurate. "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is."
I take a breath. Even after a year, vulnerability doesn't come naturally. But I've learned its value. Its necessity.
"I was thinking about gratitude," I admit. "About how differently this Christmas could have turned out if your cabinheater hadn't failed. If Mason hadn't suggested you stay here. If you hadn't been brave enough to see past my walls."
She takes my hand, her fingers linking with mine. "Best appliance failure of my life," she quips, echoing words from our early days.
"I love you," I tell her simply. Words once nearly impossible to voice now come easier, though never without weight. Never without meaning.
"I love you too." She shifts to face me fully. "Enough to tell you my own bit of news."
Something in her tone makes my heart rate increase. "What news?"
