Page 19 of Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man
"Boring. The usual arguments about snow removal schedules and funding for the spring festival." She accepts the wine glass I offer. "But we did approve the final permits for the New Year's celebration. Which reminds me..."
Here it comes. The invitation I've been dreading. The test of whatever we're building here.
"The town does this big bonfire in the square," she continues, eyes carefully watching my reaction. "Music, dancing, fireworks at midnight. Very small town charming."
"And you want me to go," I say, already feeling my chest tighten at the thought of crowds, noise, expectations.
She surprises me by shaking her head. "I want you to do what feels right for you. I'll be there because I'm helping organize it. But I understand if it's not your thing."
The lack of pressure both relieves and unsettles me. "You wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't come?"
She takes a sip of wine, considering her answer. "I'd miss you. But I wouldn't be disappointed in you. There's a difference."
Something in my chest loosens, a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. This woman, with her boundless enthusiasm for community and connection, isn't trying to change me.She's simply offering me the choice to join her world without demanding it.
"I'll think about it," I say, which is more than I would have offered anyone else.
Her smile tells me she understands exactly what that means.
The timer chimes, and I turn my attention back to dinner, grateful for the distraction. We move around each other in the kitchen with practiced ease, Leah setting the table while I plate the food. It's domestic in a way that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.
Over dinner, she tells me about her day—the characters at the town council meeting, the last minute Christmas shoppers at the general store, her video call with her parents in Seattle. I find myself smiling more than I have in years, drawn into the world she paints with her words.
"What about you?" she asks, refilling our wine glasses. "Finish the cradle?"
I nod, feeling a surge of pride. "Delivered it this morning. The couple cried."
"Of course they did! Your work is beautiful." Her eyes shine with genuine admiration. "Will you show me some of your other pieces sometime?"
The request catches me off guard. Few people have seen my workshop, the heart of my self imposed exile where I transform raw wood into functional art. It's private, personal in a way that's hard to explain.
But this is Leah asking. Leah who has already seen more of me than anyone since I returned from Afghanistan.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Whenever you want."
Her smile is like sunrise. "Thank you. I'd love that."
After dinner, we move to the sofa in front of the fireplace, Leah curling against my side as flames cast dancing shadowsacross the room. The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the corner, and outside, snow falls silently, insulating us from the world.
"This is nice," she says softly, her head resting on my shoulder. "Just this. Being here with you."
I tighten my arm around her, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Yeah. It is."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the crackling fire the only sound. I find myself thinking about how different this Christmas is from the last. How different I am.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, tilting her head to look up at me. "You've got that faraway look."
I consider deflecting, changing the subject. But she deserves more than that. She deserves truth.
"Last Christmas," I admit, my voice low. "How different things were."
She waits, not pushing, giving me space to continue or stop as I choose.
"I was alone," I say finally. "By choice. Couldn't handle being around people, their questions, their pity. Spent the day with a bottle of whiskey, trying to forget what day it was."
Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "And the Christmas before that?"
"Hospital." The word comes out rough. "Still recovering from the IED that took my team."
