Page 13 of Mountain Man's Naughty Elf
"One of them had a gun."
Her eyes widened. "That's new. And concerning."
I nodded, my jaw clenching. "This isn't just about embezzlement anymore. If he's arming his people, he's worried about more than bad press."
"What do we do?"
I met her gaze, struck by the trust I saw there. We'd known each other less than a day, yet she was looking at me like I had answers—like I could protect her. Even more surprising was the fierce protectiveness rising in my chest, an instinct I thought I'd buried in the Afghan desert. "We wait out the storm," I said. "Keep the evidence safe. Then we go to Rudy and blow this whole thing wide open." "We?" she asked quietly. The 'we' ambushed me. Three years of carefully constructed solitude, and here I was, signing up for someone else's battle. My former platoon would've laughed their asses off—the lone wolf volunteering for a Christmas crusade. "Yeah," I found myself saying. "We."
"Couldn't we just email the files to Rudy now?" she asked. "You must have a computer if you do remote security work."
"Too risky," I said, my voice firm. "People like Wickett don't embezzle alone. If he's involved in something this brazen, he likely has connections who could be monitoring communications. My satellite phone is secure for calls, but data transfers leave digital traces. Better to deliver the evidence in person."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You think they'd go that far? Over fifty thousand dollars?"
"When it could expose their entire operation? Absolutely."
The smile she gave me then was different from her others—softer, more genuine, and somehow more devastating. "Thank you," she whispered.
I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak, and turned back to the fire. The flames illuminated the fairy lights along the mantel, casting a warm, amber glow over the room.
For the first time in years, my cabin didn't feel quite so empty. And for the first time in even longer, I wasn't sure that was a bad thing.
Chapter Three
“Baby, It's Cold Outside”
Pepper
Nothing calms nerves like creaming butter and sugar. There's something soothing about the rhythm of it—the transformation of separate ingredients into something cohesive, predictable. Unlike, say, corrupt mayors with guns showing up at your temporary shelter during a snowstorm.
I'd been beating the same cookie dough for at least three minutes longer than necessary, my mind replaying Nolan's visit from earlier that day. The memory of his voice, that fake politician charm dropping away when Pax stood up to him, sent another surge of adrenaline through me. I attacked the dough with renewed vigor.
"I think it's surrendered," Pax said from the doorway of the kitchen.
I startled, wooden spoon freezing mid-stir. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Sorry," I said, glancing down at the thoroughly mixed dough. "I stress-bake."
The scent of ginger and cloves had already transformed the kitchen into a pocket-sized version of my childhood home at Christmas—warm, inviting, and safe. The steady rhythm ofmixing, rolling, cutting, and baking had always been my refuge from chaos.
"I noticed." His eyes swept over the kitchen counter, which I'd completely overtaken. Again. Flour dusted every surface, cookie cutters in various festive shapes lined up like toy soldiers, and two trays of gingerbread men already cooled on the rack. "You found my baking supplies."
"You're surprisingly well-stocked for someone who claims to hate the holidays."
