Page 34 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
We stand side by side, looking at our creation. The tree lights cast a soft glow in the otherwise dimly lit cabin. Outside, the snow continues to fall, insulating us in our own private world.
"Thank you for letting me invade your space," she says quietly. "I know this isn't easy for you."
"It's just a tree, Lettie."
"No, it's not." She turns to face me. "It's everything it represents. Memories. Hope. The belief that even in darkness, there can be light."
Something in her words reaches a part of me I've kept locked away for decades. Not the cynical man who hates Christmas, but the eight-year-old boy who once loved it before it was taken from him, along with everything else.
Before I can overthink it, I reach out and cup her face in my hand. Her skin is soft under my calloused palm, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Owen," she whispers, a question and an invitation in that single word.
I answer by lowering my mouth to hers.
The kiss is gentle at first, tentative, as if we're both afraid of breaking some spell. But then she sighs against my lips, her hands coming up to rest on my chest, and something ignites between us.
I deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, one hand sliding into her hair while the other finds the small of her back. She responds with equal fervor, her body molding against mine as if she belongs there.
She tastes like cinnamon and sugar and that delicious cider. Like everything I've denied myself for years.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are slightly swollen, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. I keep her close, unwilling to let go just yet.
"That was..." she starts, then stops, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Not very Grinch-like of you."
I laugh, surprising us both. "I guess my heart grew three sizes today."
She laughs too, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt. "Does this mean you're warming up to Christmas?"
"I'm warming up to you," I correct. "Christmas is still on probation."
"I'll take it." She rises on her tiptoes to press another quick kiss to my lips. "For now."
As I hold her in the glow of our makeshift tree, I realize I've crossed a line I swore I never would again. I've let Lettie Donovan, the Christmas Queen herself, into my space, into my defenses, possibly even into my heart.
"I wasn't always like this, you know."
She settles against my chest, looking up at me with those warm eyes. "Like what?"
"A grinch." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "Christmas used to be my favorite day of the year."
Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "What happened?"
I should stop talking. Pull back. Build the walls back up. But something about the soft lights, the snow falling outside, the warmth of her in my arms, makes me continue.
"I was eight. My parents took me to the Eden Ridge Christmas market." The words feel rusty, unused. "They told me to wait by the big tree while they got something from the car." I pause, the memory still sharp enough to cut. "They never came back."
Her grip on my hand tightens. "Owen..."
"Security found me hours later, still waiting. I bounced through foster homes after that. Three in Eden Ridge, each one worse than the last. The good toys—the ones they let people like you donate—never made it to kids like me. They were sold or returned for cash."
She doesn't offer empty platitudes or pity, just listens, her presence steady and warm beside me.
"I thought I was past it," I continue, surprising myself. "Built a life. Met a woman named Vanessa. Three years together. I was going to propose on Christmas Eve." A bitter laugh escapes me. "Thought I'd reclaim the day, turn my worst memory into my best."
"What happened?" she asks softly.
"Found her in bed with her coworker. Three days before Christmas. The ring was in my pocket."
