Page 25 of Christmas With The Broken Mountain Man
I lean back against him, savoring the solid warmth of his chest. "What did Tom say when you called?"
"That he's increasing patrols past the cabin, and he's put out an APB on the Escalade." Mason's breath tickles my ear. "If your ex shows his face in Whisper Vale again, we'll know."
"And then what?"
"Then we deal with him. Legally." Mason turns me in his arms. "There are options, Destiny. Restraining orders, harassment charges. Tom knows people at the state level who can override local corruption."
I want to believe him. Want to believe there's a way out of this nightmare that doesn't involve constantly looking over my shoulder. But years of conditioning are hard to break.
"What if it's not enough?" I voice my deepest fear. "What if he hurts you to get to me?"
A muscle ticks in Mason's jaw. "He won't."
"You can't know that."
"Actually, I can." His voice drops, taking on a dangerous edge I haven't heard before. "Because if he tries to hurt either of us, he'll learn exactly why the Walsh family has survived for generations in these mountains."
The protective fierceness in his eyes should frighten me. Instead, it sends a shiver of something like desire down my spine. No one has ever been willing to fight for me this way.
"Now," Mason continues, his tone lightening, "how about we take some of these cookies over to Mrs. Peterson? She mentioned her grandkids are visiting for Christmas, and it'll give us an excuse to be seen around town again."
I understand his strategy, maintain our cover story, act normal, show Greg (if he's watching) that I'm integrated into community life here. It makes sense tactically, but there's a deeper reason I agree.
"I'd like that." I press a soft kiss to his lips. "I want people to know I'm with you. Not just as a cover story."
Mason's eyes widen slightly at my admission. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure about you," I say simply. "Everything else we can figure out as we go."
His answering smile is like watching the sun break through clouds. He kisses me thoroughly, backing me against the counter with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
"We should probably deliver those cookies before I get distracted," he murmurs against my mouth, hands already slipping under my sweater.
I laugh, pushing him gently away. "Later. I promise."
We spend the evening making deliveries around town, cookies to Mrs. Peterson, bread to Darlene at the diner, pastries to Tom at the sheriff's office. Everywhere we go, Mason keeps me close, his hand rarely leaving the small of my back. The possessive gesture feels protective rather than controlling, and I lean into his touch.
Word of our engagement has spread like wildfire. We're congratulated repeatedly, asked about wedding plans, teased about honeymoon destinations. Rather than feeling trapped by the charade, I’m actually enjoying the fantasy, imagining afuture where these conversations aren't part of an elaborate deception.
By the time we return to the cabin, the tension that gripped me all day has eased somewhat. Mason builds a fire while I make hot chocolate, adding a splash of peppermint schnapps for good measure.
"To a successful mission," I toast, handing him a steaming mug.
"To us," he counters, clinking his mug against mine. "The real us, not the cover story."
We curl up on the couch, watching the flames dance in comfortable silence. Mason's fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm as I rest against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture after a while.
"Anything."
"What happened with Sarah? Really?"
His hand stills momentarily before resuming its path along my skin. "What makes you ask that?"
"You help people for a living. You're compassionate, attentive, clearly capable of emotional connection." I tilt my head to see his face. "So what happened that made you swear off relationships until your sister forced the issue?"
Mason is quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of old pain.
