Page 13 of Mistletoed with the Mountain Man
"I'm a grown ass man who lives alone. Of course I cook." He pulls some bottled water from the behemoth of a stainless-steel refrigerator.
"I’m impressed." I hop up onto one of the bar stools. "So, Deputy Giles, what else can you do that might surprise me?"
"Depends." He grabs some bowls from the cabinets. "What do you think you know about me?"
"Let's see." I tick off on my fingers. "Type A personality, probably alphabetizes your spice rack, secretly loves Christmas despite playing it cool, has gorgeous tattoos hidden under your respectable policeman exterior, and definitely has a wild side you keep locked down tight."
He pauses, knife hovering over the loaf of bread. "That...might be somewhat accurate."
"I'm observant." I grin. "Your turn. What do you think you know about me?"
"You use humor to deflect when things get too real. You're grieving someone you loved deeply. And you're younger than me but more emotionally intelligent than most women your age." He places a plate of sliced bread and butter on the island. “Also, you're trying very hard to figure out what you want to do with your life."
The accuracy stings, but in a good way. Like he actuallyseesme.
"Show-off," I mutter.
"Fifteen years of reading people." He ladles the rustic soup into bowls. "Comes with the badge."
He takes a seat and we eat. He tells me about bizarre calls he's responded to (apparently once he got a call about a "suspicious-looking item" in a yard, which turned out to be a potato). I almost choked laughing so hard.
And I tell him about the most ridiculous antiques people have tried to sell Aunt Meredith (cursed Victorian dolls are a hard pass).
It's comfortable. Natural. Exactly the kind of light-hearted conversation I've been missing since Dad died.
That thought makes my chest ache. "How about a hot cocoa before we start decorating the trees?"
"We’re a little off-schedule already. It's 1 p.m."
"We can make up the time later. You’re flexible, remember?” I grin. “I mean, it's never too early for hot chocolate." I walk over to the coffee bar, which apparently also stocks hot cocoa supplies because of course it does. "Besides, I make the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted."
"Bold claim,” he remarks, cleaning up our dishes.
"I stand by it." I pull out the cocoa powder, milk, and a suspicious number of flavor options. "My dad taught me. He was very particular about his hot chocolate."
Kade moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell his light cologne. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. He said the secret is..." I trail off, distracted by the way Kade’s forearm flexes as he reaches for mugs. There's a mountain peak rendered in exquisite detail just below his elbow. "Sorry, what was I saying?"
"The secret to hot chocolate?" His lips twitch.
"Right. Real cocoa powder, never the mix. A pinch of salt to enhance the chocolate. And you have to bloom the cocoa in hot milk before adding the rest." I measure ingredients as he watches. "He'd make it every Christmas Eve. We'd sit by the tree and talk about our favorite moments from the year."
"That sounds really special."
"It was." I whisk the mixture, focusing on the steady motion. "First Christmas without him was hard. Last year was worsesomehow. Like the grief was supposed get better, but it just…didn’t."
"Grief doesn't work on a schedule." His voice is gentle. "I had to learn that the hard way. My grandfather died five years ago. I still sometimes pick up the phone to call him."
I look up at him. "I’ve done that, too."
"Pops was...everything. Taught me to fish, how to throw a punch, how to treat people with respect." Kade leans against the counter. "Christmas was his favorite holiday. He'd get so excited about it, like a kid. I think that's why I love it now. Reminds me of him."
"That's beautiful." I pour the cocoa into mugs, topping them with excessive amounts of whipped cream. "He'd be proud of you. Setting up this whole Christmas for your family."
"Hope so." He accepts his mug, our fingers brushing. "Your dad would be proud of you too. Creating holiday magic for other people."
The words hit me square in the chest, unexpected and achingly kind. I blink hard against the sudden burn of tears.
