Page 38 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
His smile is brighter than I've ever seen it, years falling away from his face as joy replaces the careful reserve he's maintained for so long. He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair.
"I never thought I'd find this again," he whispers. "Hope. Joy. A reason to look forward to tomorrow."
"I never thought I'd find it at all," I admit. "Not like this. Not so completely."
We lie together as darkness continues to fall, neither of us willing to separate long enough to turn on lights or prepare dinner. Tomorrow there will be practical matters to discuss. Logistics to arrange. A future to plan. But for now, this is enough. His heartbeat beneath my palm. His breath warm against my neck. I know that this is my perfect ending, the start of my very own happily ever after.
EPILOGUE
TOM
ONE YEAR LATER
December in Whisper Vale still brings the same crystal air and mountainous silence that's defined twenty Decembers before it. But this year, as I hang the last of the outdoor lights around our front porch, everything feels different. Transformed.
The house that once stood as a monument to solitude now glows with warmth, every window illuminated, Christmas music drifting faintly through walls. Inside, Kelsie is likely arranging her third attempt at gingerbread house construction, determined to master the art before Savannah and Colt arrive for dinner.
I secure the final strand of lights and step back to assess my work. Not bad for a man who once considered a single wreath excessive holiday decoration. But as with many things this past year, Kelsie's enthusiasm has proven contagious. Her joy in small traditions impossible to resist.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rodriguez.
Rodriguez:Everything under control at the station. Tree lighting preparations all set. Enjoy your day off, Sheriff.
The simple messagestill feels strange. A day off. In December. Voluntarily taken. A year ago, I'd have found a dozen reasons to work straight through the holidays, the station a convenient fortress against memories and expectations.
Now I'm the one hosting Christmas dinner tomorrow. The one who suggested we invite Mason to join us. The one who helped Savannah decorate the town square last weekend while Kelsie and Colt judged the children's snowman competition.
Change comes in unexpected ways.
I tuck my phone away and head inside, stomping snow from my boots before entering the kitchen. The scene that greets me is pure chaos. Icing smeared across countertops, gumdrops scattered like colorful casualties, and in the center of it all, Kelsie with a determined expression and a pastry bag clutched like a weapon.
"Don't laugh," she warns without looking up, somehow sensing my presence. "This is serious architectural business."
I bite back a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
She glances up, hair wild with curls that have escaped her messy bun, a streak of green icing across one cheek. Even covered in confectionary debris, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
"The roof keeps sliding," she admits, frustration evident. "Structural integrity is harder than it looks."
"Let me help." I wash my hands and move beside her, our shoulders touching. "Sheriff's department does have some experience with building maintenance."
Together we manage to stabilize the gingerbread walls using her creativity paired with my practical solutions. When the small house finally stands secure, she turns to me with a triumphant grin.
"We make a good team, Sheriff Parker."
"Joining this team is the best decision I ever made," I tell her, meaning far more than gingerbread construction.
Her expression softens. She rises on tiptoes to press a kiss to my lips, sweet with traces of icing. "Mine too."
This simple domestic moment captures everything that's changed in my life. The house once cold and silent now constantly fills with her humming, her laughter, the clatter of her endless cooking experiments. Books and notebooks appear in every room, post-it notes with plot ideas stuck to mirrors and refrigerator doors.
She's breathed life back into spaces long abandoned to mere functionality.
"Your novels arrived," I tell her, remembering the package I collected from the mailbox. "The copies your publisher sent."
Her eyes widen. "Where?"
I retrieve the box from the hall where I left it. She wipes her hands hurriedly on a dishtowel before taking it, excitement making her movements quick and jerky.
