Page 8 of Wrapped Up with the Mountain Man
Tannon sets down his wrench, really looking at me. Taking in what must be obvious desperation. "How many kids?"
"I don't know. Maybe twenty families? But honestly, right now I only care about two kids who've been disappointed enough today."
Tannon hods. He's quiet for a moment, thinking.
"There's the old ski patrol cabin. Ten minutes by snowcat. Has a fireplace, basic kitchen, generator. Not fancy, but..."
"It doesn't need to be fancy. It just needs to be Christmas."
He studies my face. "Give me an hour to get it ready."
"Really? You'd do that?"
"Those kids deserve a good Christmas," he says simply, but there's something in his eyes that makes me think this is about more than just Mia and Bentley.
An hour later, Tannon appears with a duffle bag and snow in his hair.
"Ready for an adventure?" he asks the kids.
"What kind of adventure?" Mia asks cautiously.
"The kind where we make our own Christmas party."
Both children light up like Christmas trees.
The ride to the cabin in Tannon's snowcat is magical. The kids press their faces to windows, marveling at the snow-covered forest. I can’t stop looking at the mountain man.
When the cabin comes into view, I gasp. Smoke curls from the chimney, warm light glows from windows.
"It’s amazing," I say softly.
"Figured if we were going to do this, we should do it right."
Inside, the cabin is everything the Pinnacle Suite isn't: cozy, lived-in, real. Stone fireplace crackling, handmade furniture, and on the table, supplies for cookie decorating and hot chocolate.
"You bought supplies."
"And I brought something else." He pulls the Santa suit from his bag. "Figured Santa should make an appearance."
The next few hours are pure magic. We make hot chocolate that's more marshmallow than chocolate. We decorate cookies with enough frosting to rot teeth. And Tannon, looking hilariously uncomfortable in the too-tight Santa suit, tells stories that have the kids hanging on every word.
Watching him with Mia and Bentley does dangerous things to my heart. He's patient and gentle, listening to their chatter with genuine interest. When he covers sleeping Bentley with a handmade quilt, something in my chest goes soft and warm.
"You're good with them," I tell him quietly as we watch the children sleep by the fire.
"Kids are easy. It's adults who complicate things."
"Is that why you live alone?"
He's quiet, staring into the fire. "Something like that."
"I used to want to be a teacher," I find myself saying. "Had it all planned out— my own classroom, bulletin boards, reading circles." I laugh softly. "Turns out teaching jobs require connections I don't have."
"So you became a nanny."
"So I became hired help for people who can afford to pay well but can't be bothered to raise their own children." The bitterness surprises me. "Sorry. Unprofessional."
"But honest." His eyes find mine in the firelight. "Those kids are lucky to have you."
