Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord (Grumpy Christmas Mountain Man #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

TOM

The box of Christmas decorations stares at me from the corner of my office like it's judging my life choices. I've been avoiding it all week. December first came and went. Now we're crawling toward the middle of the month, and my Sheriff's station still looks like any other day of the year.

"Sheriff, you want me to put these up?" Deputy Rodriguez gestures toward the sad cardboard container. "My shift's ending, but I can stay."

"Leave it." I look back down at the paperwork covering my desk. "I'll get to it."

Rodriguez hesitates, clearly wanting to say more but knowing better. Smart kid. Been with the department two years now and has finally learned when to keep his mouth shut around me.

"Your daughter called again." He places a yellow message slip on top of my arrest report. "Third time today."

I grunt in acknowledgment. Savannah's been relentless lately, especially since she married that Reeves boy. Colt. Still can't believe my daughter married a former troublemaker, but I'm trying. For her sake.

"She said it's about Christmas dinner," Rodriguez adds, lingering by the door. "Said to remind you it's at their place this year."

"Got it." I don't look up.

When the door finally closes behind him, I release a long breath and reach for the message slip.

Christmas dinner. Another tradition I'd gladly skip if Savannah would let me.

Sixteen years of forcing holiday cheer for my daughter's sake has left me empty.

Going through motions that mean nothing except pain.

My computer pings with a calendar reminder: 4:30 appointment with Mason. Perfect. Another thing I'd rather avoid today. I grab my jacket and keys, making sure no one sees me heading out the back. Nobody in Whisper Vale needs to know their sheriff is seeing a therapist.

Especially not during the holidays.

The drive to Mason's office on the outskirts of town takes me past storefronts already dressed in green and red.

Twinkling lights hang from every lamppost. A banner across Main Street announces the annual Christmas tree lighting this weekend.

The whole town seems determined to force holiday cheer down everyone's throat.

Mason's office sits above the old bookstore, accessible by a side staircase that offers some privacy. Another reason I picked him. That and he's actually good at his job, though I'll never admit that to his face.

"You're late," he says when I walk in, not bothering to look up from his notepad.

"Had paperwork." I drop into the leather armchair across from him, the one that's starting to form to my body after months of weekly sessions.

"The same paperwork as last week? And the week before?" Mason finally meets my eyes, his expression neutral but challenging.

I grunt. "Different paperwork. Same job."

"How are you feeling about the holidays approaching?"

I resist the urge to get up and walk out. This is why I hate therapy. No small talk. No easing in. Just right for the jugular.

"Same as always," I say flatly. "It's just another day on the calendar."

Mason makes a note. "Savannah mentioned you haven't put up any decorations at home yet."

"You talking to my daughter about me now?" My voice hardens. "Thought there were rules about that sort of thing."

"She mentioned it in passing when I saw her at The Grind." He sets down his pen. "She's worried about you, Tom. Says you're working more than usual lately."

"Crime doesn't take a holiday."

"Neither do you."

We sit in silence for a minute. That's another thing I've come to appreciate about Mason. He doesn't feel the need to fill every quiet moment with chatter.

"Look," I finally say, "Christmas was Caroline's thing. After she left, I kept it up for Savannah's sake. Now she's married, building her own traditions. Maybe it's time I just... opt out."

"Is that what you want?" Mason asks. "To opt out of Christmas?"

"What I want is for everyone to stop acting like December requires mandatory joy.

" The words come out sharper than intended.

"What I want is to work my shifts, go home, and not be reminded that sixteen years ago my wife walked out two weeks before Christmas, leaving me with an eight year old who kept thinking if she hung enough lights, her mother might come back. "

I rarely mention Caroline in these sessions. The pain has dulled over the years, but the anger remains fresh. Not at her leaving. At what it did to Savannah. At what it still does to me every time silver bells start jingling on the radio.

"That's the most you've said about her since we started these sessions," Mason observes.

I shrug, already regretting the outburst. "Nothing to say. Ancient history."

"Not to you. Not during December."

My phone buzzes in my pocket, saving me from responding. I check the screen, expecting Savannah again. Instead, I see a notification from my property management app. Someone's booked my rental cabin for a month.

"Good news?" Mason asks, noting my surprised expression.

"Someone rented the cabin." I tuck the phone away. "Place has been sitting empty since summer. Could use the income."

"The one behind your house?"

I nod. "Arriving tomorrow. Some writer from San Diego looking for peace and quiet."

"Speaking of the cabin," Mason says, his tone shifting slightly, "I have a favor to ask."

I narrow my eyes. Mason never asks for favors. "What kind of favor?"

"My sister needs a place to stay for a few weeks." He taps his pen against his notepad. "She's going through some things, needs space to work. I was going to suggest your rental cabin."

"Your sister?" This is the first I've heard about Mason having a sister. "She can have the cabin if she wants, but someone just booked it."

"That would be her." He smiles slightly. "Kelsie. She's a writer, needs somewhere quiet to focus on her next book. I recommended your place."

"You recommended my cabin without asking me first?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I knew it was available. And I knew you could use the income." Mason shrugs. "Win win."

Something about this doesn't add up. "Why not just have her stay with you?"

"Have you met writers? They need their space." He makes another note. "Besides, my place is too close to town. Too many distractions."

I don't push further, but mental alarms are ringing. Mason is hiding something. In all our sessions, he's been the one digging for truth while revealing almost nothing about himself. Now suddenly he has a sister who needs my cabin specifically?

"What kind of writer is she?" I ask.

"Contemporary fiction." Mason's answer comes too quickly. "Very talented. Just needs some peace and quiet to meet her deadline."

Before I can ask more questions, Mason glances at his watch. "Our time's up for today. Same time next week?"

I nod, standing to leave. As I reach the door, he adds, "Tom? Maybe think about putting up just one decoration this year. Start small."

"No promises," I mutter, pulling the door shut behind me.

Back in my truck, I sit for a moment, processing. A writer coming to stay in my cabin. Mason's sister, no less. Just what I need during the holiday season. A stranger on my property, probably expecting neighborly Christmas cheer from the grumpy sheriff next door.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's an alert from the cabin's security system. Temperature dropping rapidly. Heating system failure.

"Perfect," I growl, starting the engine. Property management is supposed to handle maintenance, but they're useless after hours. If I want the cabin habitable before Mason's sister arrives tomorrow, I'll have to fix it myself.

The sun is already setting when I pull up to my house, a two story craftsman style home that's too big for just me but I can't bring myself to sell.

Around back, separated by a stand of pines, sits the rental cabin.

One bedroom, one bath, small kitchenette.

Nothing fancy, but it brings in decent income during tourist season.

As I approach, I notice lights on inside. My hand instinctively moves to my sidearm. The renter isn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

I approach cautiously, years of law enforcement training kicking in. Through the window, I catch movement. A woman, moving quickly back and forth, arms loaded with what look like books and papers.

I knock firmly. "Sheriff's department."

The door flies open immediately, and I find myself face to face with a woman who seems entirely too happy to see. "Oh thank God," she says, then falters as she registers my uniform. "Wait. You're not the heating repair person."

"No ma'am. I'm Sheriff Tom Parker. This is my property." I take in the chaos behind her. Suitcases open on the floor, papers spread across every surface, a laptop balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. "You're not supposed to check in until tomorrow."

"I know, I know. I'm so sorry." She pushes wild curly hair away from her face.

"I was making good time on the drive and thought I'd get settled early since the app said it was available.

I changed the date on the app before I came in, I swear.

Then the heat died, and I've been trying to reach property management for the past hour, and I'm from San Diego. I don't do cold."

She says this all in one breath, hands fluttering expressively, glasses sliding down her nose. She's wearing what appears to be coffee stained sweatpants and an oversized university sweatshirt. Somehow, she manages to look both frazzled and adorable.

I clear my throat. "You must be Kelsie Walsh.”

Her eyes widen. "How did you... wait. Parker? As in Mason's friend Tom?"

I nod. "Your brother mentioned you were coming."

"My brother. Right." Something flickers across her face. "He told you I was coming to work on my book?"

"He mentioned you're a writer. Contemporary fiction, he said."

She makes an odd choking sound that she quickly covers with a cough. "Yes. Contemporary... fiction. That's... accurate."

I step inside, moving past her to check the thermostat.

Dead. "The heating system in this cabin is ancient.

I've been meaning to replace it." Kneeling, I open the access panel beneath the heating unit.

"I can patch this temporarily, but it's going to take a few hours.

System needs replacing, but that won't happen until after Christmas.

Everything's backed up this time of year. "

"So I'm going to freeze to death in a cabin with no heat?" Her voice rises slightly in panic. "Because I really can't work if I'm hypothermic. Trust me, I've tried."

I glance back at her, surprised I’m almost smiling at her dramatic tone. Almost. "You won't freeze. I've got a guest room in my house. You can stay there until this is fixed."

"Oh no, I couldn't impose." She hugs herself, already shivering as the cabin grows colder.

"It's not an imposition. It's basic human decency." I stand, wiping dust from my hands. "Besides, the temperature's dropping fast. It'll be in the low forties tonight."

She looks around at her scattered belongings, biting her lower lip. The gesture draws my attention to her mouth, full and pink even without lipstick. I quickly avert my eyes, annoyed at myself for noticing.

"Grab what you need for tonight," I tell her. "We can get the rest tomorrow."

"Thank you." She begins gathering her laptop and a stack of papers with surprising efficiency. "I really appreciate this. I promise I won't be any trouble."

I seriously doubt that. Everything about Kelsie Walsh screams trouble, from her chaotic energy to the way she keeps shooting nervous glances at the papers she's collecting. Mason definitely didn't tell me everything about his sister.

As I help her carry a bag to my house, I catch myself wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into. A writer with secrets, staying in my guest room, three weeks before Christmas.

The timing couldn't be worse. The last thing I need right now is a distraction. Especially one with wild curls, expressive brown eyes, and a tendency to ramble when nervous.

But as she struggles with her overstuffed laptop bag, dropping papers that scatter across the path, I slow my pace to help her gather them. One page flutters open, and I catch a glimpse of words that make my eyebrows shoot up before she snatches it away, cheeks flaming red.

"Research," she mutters, stuffing it deep into her bag.

I don't comment, but inside I'm revising my understanding of what "contemporary fiction" might mean in Kelsie Walsh’s world.

Christmas just got a lot more complicated.