Page 28 of Mountain Man's Curvy Christmas Gift
“Stay.”
She lifts her head. The fire paints gold on her cheek. “Is that a question or an order?”
“It’s a promise,” I say. “I’ll fix your door in town tomorrow. I’ll put in lights and a camera and a panic button you’ll never have to press. I’ll sit in a booth and scowl until the tips improve. Or—” I swallow, because the next part wants to stick. “—or you can move in here and we’ll argue about cabinet space until spring.”
She smiles like a sunrise. “Both,” she says. “Diner and cabin. Town and mountain. You and me.”
“Okay.” My voice comes out rough. “Okay.”
She settles back down, head over my heart. Outside, snow keeps falling, soft and relentless, erasing footprints and tire tracks and the way a doorframe splintered. Inside, the dog snores like a blessing, the fire ticks, and the house holds its new weight.
Tomorrow, there will be statements and paperwork and locks to fix and a town to reassure. Tomorrow, Micah will buy pie and pretend it isn’t for him; Hale will pretend Wren didn’t text himherowith a hundred exclamation points; Tom will pretend he didn’t enjoy putting cuffs on a man who needed them.
Tonight, I keep my hand on the warm, living proof that I didn’t lose the only thing I can’t replace.
“Hey,” she whispers, almost asleep. “You know how you said you don’t think you deserve nice things?”
“Yeah.”
“You were wrong.”
I breathe out, long and easy, and pull her closer. “I’m learning.”
She smiles against my skin. “Good. Lesson plans start tomorrow. Make pancakes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And if happy endings are made, not found, I’m fine with that. I’ve built shelters out of worse weather. I can build this—with her—in the quiet we chose and the noise we’ll make together.
HEA?
Yeah.
It’s ours.
