A Curvy Christmas for the Mountain Man (Grumpy Christmas Mountain Man #23)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

COOKIE

“Just show up with some cookies and Christmas cheer. That’s all.”

I’m elbow-deep in flour when Beth announces I need to go see her hermit uncle with baked goods and Christmas carols.

"What?" I look up from the flour-dusted counter.

“You heard me.” Beth grins as she places a tray of maple pecan plaits beside me.

The scent hits me, and I practically drool. Two months of working here and I still haven't gotten used to resisting these delicious little pastries.

"Sing to my uncle and deliver these." She points at the yummy pastries. "That's it. We close early today anyway—Christmas Eve gets quiet after the morning rush."

I stare at her. "You want me to drive up a mountain on Christmas Eve to sing to your uncle with a tray of pastries you've baked?"

It’s Christmas, and she’s asking me to go see her uncle?

The same uncle she's mentioned only in passing, always with that slight furrowing of her brow that speaks of complicated family history.

My first instinct is to say no. Christmas Eve used to mean family gatherings, laughter, and belonging.

Now it means an empty apartment and memories I'm not ready to face.

The thought of spending the evening alone with nothing but those ghosts makes something twist painfully in my soul.

"Sasha." Beth uses my real name, which means she's serious.

Except… ever since the day of the accident, I haven’t been able to bear hearing it. The last time I did, it was from the people who loved me the most.

My parents.

I wave her off, hoping she doesn’t notice my eyes watering. "It's Cookie. You know I hate Sasha."

"Fine. Cookie." She softens. "I know it's a lot to ask but he’s alone—"

“It’s Christmas," I say, surprising myself. "No one should be alone." Maybe that's why I'm considering this—because I know how lonely the holiday can feel when you're by yourself. I'm already mentally packing cookies, wondering if this strange mission might be exactly what I need.

Beth waves her hand. “I worry about him.” She sighs. “We all do, but he won’t see us.”

I glance at her and can’t help the pang of sympathy in my chest I know she’d hate. It must be hard having family so close by when they don’t seem to want you around.

Beth’s been talking me into questionable decisions since our freshman year—like the time she convinced me to dye my hair purple for Spring Break, or when she talked me into moving halfway across the country to help run her bakery. This latest request feels normal coming from her.

“You have this way with people. Remember Mrs. Carlisle from the apartment upstairs?” Beth leans against the counter. “She actually smiled after you brought her those brownies.”

“I can’t sing,” I remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“It’s Christmas. No one cares.”

“Seriously though, why can’t you go?”

Beth hesitates and then purses her lips—something she does when she doesn’t want to answer.

“Beth?”

“He’s extra grumpy.”

Oh.

“And maybe he could do with a little cheering up.” Beth gives me a wink. “He’s your type, too.”

“Beth!”

“Just saying!” She holds up her hands before continuing. “He used to be so nice. He taught me how to make apple turnovers when I was little. Now he won’t even answer the door when I knock.” She fidgets with her apron strings. “Mom thinks the war changed something in him.”

That’s not surprising. I can’t even begin to imagine how you’d recover from fighting in a war; however, not speaking to your family again seems sad.

“Damn,” I mutter. “He doesn’t even speak to your mom or dad?”

“Nope. Mom made me promise before they moved away to check on him every Christmas.” She sucks in a breath. “I’ve tried. But it’s tough seeing him like this.”

“So, he spends Christmas alone?” My heart sinks a little.

If it weren’t for Beth, I would be alone at Christmas, and that makes me feel even more sorry for this guy. But I didn’t choose not to speak to my family—they were killed in a car accident. Pain slices through my stomach at the memory, and then the survivor’s guilt kicks in.

Don’t think about it. Listen to Beth.

“He’s alone all year.” Beth smiles, but I’ve known her long enough to know it’s forced. Beth’s parents moved away, leaving her with just a brother and this mysterious uncle she barely talks about. “Please, Cookie.”

I’m already mentally planning what gift to take with me, because I can’t turn up with gifts from Beth and nothing from me.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go after work.”

"Wear this." Beth tosses a paper bag in my direction, a smirk on her lips. "You're supposed to be a Christmas Singagram. You need to look the part."

I pull out the Santa outfit that won’t fit me or my curves and raise an eyebrow. The red velvet is soft beneath my touch, but I can already picture how it'll cling to all the wrong places.

My smile wavers for just a second—the automatic calculation every plus-size woman makes when handed clothes racing through my mind. Will it fit? Will I look ridiculous? Will whoever sees me laugh?

Then I shove the thought down where it belongs and grin at Beth. "This is definitely some sort of prank."

"Sorry. It's all the store had left last minute," Beth says. “It’s lovely! Plus, I made you a batch of cookies.”

“Have I really got to sing?” I ask.

She laughs. “Oh, you love it! You love Christmas!”

She’s right. I’m already picturing his face when he sees the cookies, maybe even humming along despite himself. Everyone deserves a little joy at Christmas.

“What’s his name?” I ask, watching as she smiles.

“Red.”

_____

Two hours later, I'm coaxing my ancient car up the mountain road. The forecast promised clear skies—partly cloudy at worst. Beth checked twice before I left, her phone showing nothing but light flurries for the next forty-eight hours.

"See? Perfect conditions," she said, shoving the pastry box into my arms. "You'll be up and back before dinner. But if for any reason you’re not, you won’t have any signal. You’ll be stuck up there with my uncle.”

I gave her a blank look.

No signal? Stuck with her grumpy uncle?

“I hope not. It’s Christmas tomorrow!”

Beth waved a hand. “Stop worrying. You’ll be fine.”

The sky had other plans.

Beth's brother said my car "needs some work"—quite the understatement for something that wheezes like an old horse—but it's gotten me to the bakery and back for six months without issue. It should've been fine for one mountain trip.

It’s not ideal, but I only use it to travel between home and work.

Home. It’s weird how home will always be Mom and Dad’s house—but now… my apartment is all I have.

Stop dwelling in the past! I tell myself, forcing my attention back on the road.

Snow falls heavily, and I cluck my tongue.

"Of course it's snowing! It's December,” I berate myself and squint through the snow-dusted windshield—except this isn't the light dusting the weather app promised. This is coming down fast, falling as thick flakes that mean business. My chest aches with the familiar weight of anxiety I always get when I’m driving, but I breathe through it.

I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time I’ve driven in snow.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder, distracting me. Beth's name flashes on the screen, but there's no signal to answer. The last bar disappears as I round another curve.

I’ll call her back soon.

While navigating the winding road, I hum under my breath, the same way I have every December since I could carry a tune, and even at twenty-eight, that hasn’t changed.

The wrapped sweater I hastily picked up for Red, which currently sits on the passenger seat, shifts with each turn.

He probably doesn’t have a Christmas one, and it’s freezing up here in the mountains.

I went for an extra-large, because, you know, mountain men aren’t usually small.

The heating in the car is practically non-existent, and the Santa dress Beth gave me is shorter than I’d like.

I hope I don’t give the poor man a heart attack.

I even have candy cane striped socks! It is a cute outfit; I must admit.

The little Santa coat that came with it has huge fur cuffs, and I love the feeling of it against my chilly skin.

I’m still humming when I spot a cabin in the distance. Smoke puffs from the chimney, and I grin, happy that the man is warm at least.

I’ve decided I’ll sing “Jingle Bells” to him, because it always cheers me up on a sad day. Plus, it’s easy to remember, and everyone knows it, right?

I pull over as the car shudders to a stop, and I thank the heavens that I got here in one piece while simultaneously trying not to think about getting home. I’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it.

Cutting the engine, I eye the wrapped goodies, secured with a bright red bow.

Lovely.

I climb over the center console, carefully avoiding the gifts—not an easy feat at my size—then push the passenger door open and wince when I’m hit with a blast of cold air.

The air is sharper up in the mountains, and it steals my breath. Damn, it’s cold! Santa must have a fur-lined coat, not a cheap deal from Sal’s Store.

I try not to slip in my silver pumps as they slide over the fresh snow, holding onto the car as I make my way around it to the cabin.

“Keep it steady, Cookie,” I tell myself, my tongue pressing into the corner of my lips as I try to keep my balance. Somehow, I manage to keep hold of the wrapped box and straighten the Santa hat that’s fighting the elements to stay on my head. “Come on. Make Santa proud.”

But what if this guy likes being alone?

I shake my head, pushing away the thought as I practically skate to the door of the cabin, goose bumps covering my skin. Gritting my teeth, I remind myself I’m doing this for the veteran inside, before lifting my frozen fingers into a fist to knock.

Taking a deep breath and fixing a wide smile on my cherry-red lips, I knock, half-expecting Beth’s grumpy uncle to bark at me before I even see his face.

But underneath my forced cheer, there's a flutter of something else—curiosity, perhaps, about the man who chooses solitude over family, or maybe a strange hope that behind this door is someone who might understand what it's like to face the holidays alone.

Standing there, I pray the door opens before my nipples freeze clean off.