Page 4 of Mountain Man Grinch
“Not like Grumpy banned hygiene,” I tell Gus.
The hallway creaks under my steps. First door, guest bedroom. Second, bathroom.
Functional. Depressing. Aesthetics: Lumberjack Minimalism.
“Guy clearly lives alone,” I mutter. “Or he murders anyone who tries to redecorate.”
Gus sneezes like he agrees.
I open the linen closet. Rows of gray towels greet me, all folded with military precision.
Figures.
The next door reveals a bedroom with a bed big enough for a Viking army. I suddenly feel like Goldilocks snooping around the wrong house. “Definitely too big,” I whisper, then stop at his closet.
Flannel heaven. I grab one—orange and black, soft as sin. I press it to my cheek. It smells like leather, smoke, and danger.
I shouldn’t think about what he smells like. Or looks like without it.
My body doesn’t get the memo.
I backtrack to the bathroom, towel and flannel in hand, despite my better judgment. He won’t mind. Besides, he’s lagging on luggage delivery. Can he really blame me for improvising?
In the bathroom, light glints off the chrome accents of the shower stall, and it hits me all over again…
Tires squeal, a bullet sparks off a guardrail. Headlights cut through the fog, ominous, searching. A metallic smell mixes with ozone as a shiver trails down my spine.
I step into the shower, quivering all over. Hot water hits like salvation. Steam fogs the mirror, the world, my thoughts.
I sing “Let It Snow” at the top of my lungs because irony deserves commitment.
Half an hour later, I’m clean, thawed, and deeply offended by his shampoo situation.
No conditioner. No cute scents or fancy bottles. Just “Man.”
“Fantastic,” I grumble. “Now I smell like testosterone and tree sap.”
Through the shower stall’s glass, I spot his flannel on the counter. “When in the Sierra Nevada backcountry, raid the Grinch’s wardrobe.” Can’t imagine he’ll mind too much. Especially if I make it look cute.
Gus snores on the bathmat, legs twitching in puppy dreams.
“Don’t judge me,” I whisper. “Some of us cope with fashion.”
Boom!I gasp. The door slams. Heavy boots pound out Davin’s unmistakable cadence.
Uh-oh. The mountain’s back.
I start belting “Santa Baby” because chaos is my love language.
A deep groan answers from down the hall.
Score one for me.
Maybe.
My stomach tightens. He’s risking his neck for me, and I’m over here trolling him with cabaret classics. A classic Arielle coping mechanism.
I towel off, slip into the flannel—still warm from shower steam—and pad to the bedroom. My luggage sits there. He must’ve dropped it off while I was singing badly in the shower. Two towels lie under it, collecting the snow melting in puddles.
