Page 10 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
At noon, I finally get a break. Wren insists on covering the welcome booth, practically shoving a plate of food into my hands.
"Eat," she commands. "You've been running on coffee and adrenaline all day."
"Everything's going perfectly," I tell her, suddenly realizing how hungry I am as I bite into a warm gingerbread cookie. "The snowfall last night was like a miracle."
"The children are having an amazing time," she agrees, her eyes tracking a group of kids throwing snowballs in a designated play area. "The McKenna brothers brought their families. Even Elias came down from his cabin, which is almost as shocking as your mountain man showing up."
"He's not my mountain man," I protest around a mouthful of cookie.
Wren raises an eyebrow. "He's been watching you, you know. When you're not looking."
"He's probably making sure we don't violate his precious property rights."
"Mmhmm. That must be why he brought his personal generator to save our event, and why he's been scowling at any man who talks to you for too long."
"What? He has not." I turn to scan the crowd, finding Aaron precisely where Wren indicated, by the hot chocolate stand. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up, our eyes meeting across the distance. He doesn't look away.
Heat that has nothing to do with my hot cider spreads through my chest. I break the eye contact first, turning back to Wren.
"He's just being neighborly," I insist, not entirely sure who I'm trying to convince.
"Neighborly," Wren repeats with a knowing smile. "Sure. Because that man has been the definition of neighborly since he moved here two years ago."
Before I can formulate a response, a commotion near the entrance catches my attention. Mayor Johnston has arrived withthe children from the Billings Hospital—our special guests of honor. Some in wheelchairs, others walking with assistance, all bundled up against the cold and wide eyed at the winter scene before them.
"I need to greet them," I say, handing my half empty plate back to Wren. "We have special gift bags for each child."
I hurry toward the entrance, checking that everything is ready for our most important guests. These children and their families are the whole reason for the event, the reason I fought so hard to make it happen.
The next hour is devoted to making sure each child experiences the full magic of Winter Wonderland. I personally escort two sisters, both undergoing treatment for the same rare blood disorder, to the carousel. Their delight as they ride the beautifully restored horses makes every struggle worthwhile.
As I help the younger girl, barely five years old, down from her horse, I notice Aaron standing nearby, watching the carousel spin. The little girl notices him too.
"Are you a real mountain man?" she asks him, her voice made thin by illness but her eyes bright with curiosity.
Aaron looks startled, then kneels down to her level, his massive frame somehow making the gesture even more gentle.
"Some people say so," he tells her seriously.
"Do you have a pet bear?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "No bears. Just myself."
"That sounds lonely," the child says with the brutal honesty only kids possess.
Something flashes across Aaron's face—pain, recognition, vulnerability—before he composes himself.
"Sometimes quiet is nice," he says. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small wooden figure—a tiny carouselhorse, intricately carved. "I made this earlier. Would you like to have it?"
The little girl's eyes widen as she accepts the carving. "It looks just like the one I rode! Did you make it just for me?"
Aaron nods. "Merry Christmas."
"Thank you!" She throws her thin arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug. For a moment, Aaron freezes, clearly unused to such contact. Then, carefully, he pats her back.
I feel like I'm witnessing something profoundly private, a crack in the armor he wears so rigidly. When the child releases him and runs to show her sister the wooden horse, Aaron rises to his feet, his eyes meeting mine.
What I see there steals my breath—rawness, pain, and something else, something warm and wanting that makes my heart beat faster.
