Christmas with the Grizzly (Obsessed Mountain Mates #9)

Chapter 1

Lila

I’m driving. Snow’s falling gently. Endless fields, blanketed in white. Stretches of snow-dusted pines here and there. It’s kind of dreamy.

Christmas is in two days, and it’s no big deal.

I’m off work for a week—no campaigns, no client calls, no pretending my marketing job isn’t eating my soul.

Instead, I’m heading to a cabin in the mountains, to pet sit and forget about the whole glittery, sparkly ordeal—right after I swing by Mom’s place for a pre-Christmas dinner.

By the time I pull off the highway, the snow stops being picturesque, and starts feeling personal. Big, wet flakes slam into the windshield like they know. Like they’re mad at me for returning to the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again.

Five more minutes of squinting through the windshield while throwing my rental car through a bunch of slippery turns, and my GPS chirps like a perky serial killer:

You’ve reached your destination.

And there it is: Mom’s dream McMansion—looming out of the white like a Disney villain bought a Swiss chalet.

Complete with glued on “rustic” logs and a stone effect facade—oh, and twin turrets and arched windows because she always deserved to be a princess.

And right now, it’s buried under enough Christmas lights to signal aircraft—every gutter dripping with icicle lights, every bush smothered in LEDs, the whole thing glittering like a Vegas snow globe.

A huge holly wreath hangs from the door. I picture Mom flinging the door open. Sweeping me into a hug. The scent of cinnamon and roast turkey wafting out.

A cozy family dinner.

Lots of laughter and fun, and interest in my life—

But that’s weird…

The driveway’s empty.

The gates read my license plate and slide open. I drive around the ornamental fountain—currently wearing its own icicle crown—and pull up in front of the house. No other cars. No footprints in the snow. And the house looks dark inside.

My stomach drops.

Something’s wrong.

I get out of the car and walk to the front door, my breath fogging in the cold air. The pathway has obviously been cleared at some point, but it’s already turned icy and perilous again.

I ring the doorbell.

Nothing.

Lift the knocker and hammer three times. The sound echoes into the empty interior.

Then I peer through the window. The lights are all off, but a gigantic Christmas tree is all lit up, pulsating with blue and silver lights.

My throat spasms.

I should be used to this by now. I’m not.

I get back into the car and sit there, wanting to delay the moment of realization as long as possible.

“Maybe she’s just out for groceries,” I tell the steering wheel. “Or she’s gone to the church to light a candle in honor of leaving her only child emotionally undernourished for another year.”

Time passes. I retrieve my phone from the dash and tap out a message:

Me: Where are you, Mom?

The reply comes fast. Suspiciously fast:

Mom: I’m sorry, hon. You just missed us.

Me: What do you mean?

Mom: Roads will be bad tomorrow. We’re driving all the way to Vermont, remember? We decided to get a head start.

What?

The words blur. I blink hard.

Me: We had plans, Mom!!!

Mom: Sorry, honey, but we didn’t want to risk it. There’s always next year.

I give a tired, cracked laugh. “Right. Wouldn’t want to get snowed in on Christmas with your only child.”

Through the window, the tree blazes on, smug and perfect. It doesn’t care that I’ve been left out in the cold. I can see my own reflection ghosting in the windshield, eyes tired, hair frizzing from the humidity.

I text one more time—

Me: Love you too—

Then I throw the phone onto the passenger seat.

The screen lights up with a heart emoji.

Too late, Mom.

Way too late.

The drive through town doesn’t do my mood any favors.

Maple View looks exactly like it did when I was a kid and still believed the world was secretly good. String lights stretch between lampposts. A coffee shop spills golden light and laughter onto the sidewalk. In the square, a kid’s building a snowman with her dad.

Nostalgia sweeps through me.

I blink fast, pretending it’s just the glare from the snow.

The truth is, Christmas was never easy in our family. Mom and Dad couldn’t stand being in the same room for more than an hour without a fight breaking out.

I always hoped that would change one day.

And now it has, but for Mom and her new hubby—the sleazeball with the too-white teeth and the too-tight chinos.

Lorenzo’s Diner appears on the left, and my heart gives another lurch.

I should’ve just bypassed the town and driven up the other way. It’s too full of memories.

Of my childhood, yes. But also of him—

The one who used to make my insides fizz whenever he walked into Lorenzo’s, where I worked as a server. The one who looked at me like he saw everything about me—and then rejected me in the most humiliating way imaginable.

I never really got over what happened. Five years later, and it still hits me like a sucker-punch.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Nope,” I tell the dashboard. “Not thinking about him this holiday. We’re focusing on keeping Heather’s pets alive. That’s it.”

The road curves into deeper wilderness, and the snowfall thickens.

Finally, a wooden sign appears: Cedar Hollow Ridge – Private Road. I turn onto a rutted dirt road, and catch sight of the pitched roof of a cabin in the distance, a faint light showing.

When I pull up, the cabin shudders with a chorus of barks, yips and howls.

I give a little smile. At least someone’s excited to see me.

My phone glows with my last message from Heather:

Key under mat… I think.

The porch light flickers as I climb the steps, boots crunching in thick snow. I bend to lift the mat.

“Okay, Heather. Under the mat.”

Nope.

I lift the mat right up and shake it.

Still nothing.

“Of course.”

I look around—there’s a half-buried flowerpot, a decorative gnome, and a broken watering can by the door. Where would I hide a key if I was a lunatic?

Ten minutes later, I find it under a frozen dog bowl.

Because, of course.

The moment I slip through the door, chaos hits. Four dogs ambush me—big, small, wiggly, loud—barking and leaping at me, tails wagging hard enough to power a turbine. I crouch down and let them lick my face.

When I straighten up, a gray cat streaks past my boots, and from somewhere above my head a voice screeches, “Merry Christmas, idiot!”

My head jerks up.

The culprit—a green parrot—glares down at me from a perch near the rafters, feathers fluffed.

“You must be Mr. Jingles,” I say. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Now he’s said his piece, he regards me silently with his beady eyes.

I shut the door firmly behind me, heart still racing from the chaotic entrance, and from the fact that my mother just ditched me like an unwanted Secret Santa gift.

The cabin smells like pine and animal. Dog beds and chew toys are scattered everywhere like landmines.

But at least there’s a generous stack of wood and kindling beside the hearth.

I cross to it right away. I’m not what you’d call outdoorsy.

More a heated-seats-and-Netflix kind of girl.

But my dad taught me to light a fire—said it was one of the most essential skills a human could learn—right before a drunk driver plowed through a red light and took him away from me.

So, any time I get the chance, I kneel in front of a hearth, stack kindling, strike a match, and send a silent prayer.

The dogs settle, once they’ve ascertained that I’ll be sticking around—one collapses in front of the fire, the other three take up various spots around the room. Mr. Jingles mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “moron” from his perch in the corner.

I kick off my boots and head to the little kitchen.

It’s basic but tidy: pine cupboards, an ancient kettle, mugs sending greetings from Curacao.

I fill the kettle and set it to boil. As the water bubbles, I root in the cupboards for coffee.

All I find is cocoa mix—half-empty tin, clumpy at the edges—and make a mug so thick the spoon practically stands upright.

I stand there a moment, sipping, feeling the warmth seep back into me.

The place hums with quiet—no traffic, no other houses in sight, just the rumble of the boiler and the soft snore of a dog.

I spot a bunch of romantasy books on a bookshelf, and a narrow staircase that leads up to what looks like a cozy sleeping area.

The whole place feels like it’s designed for one thing: slowing down.

Work knows I’ll be basically off-grid this week. No emails. No emergencies. Just… me.

For the first time all day, my shoulders loosen.

“Okay,” I tell the room. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”

And that’s when I see the envelope on the counter—Instructions for the Pets.

I sit down on the sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table and tear it open.

Feed all animals twice daily. Don’t forget Mr. Jingles likes jazz….

I snort. “Great. I’ll just duet with the parrot when cabin fever sets in.”

…Dogs need their multi vitamins 2x per day. Whatever you do, don’t let Smokey outside.

“Smokey?”

I close my eyes.

I replay the moment a little gray thing streaked across my foot… right before I closed the door.

No!

“Where is he?” I ask the dogs.

They raise their heads quizzically, then drop them back down again, when my words clearly have nothing to do with dinner.

I leap up and conduct a search of the cabin: behind the curtains, up into the loft—which turns out to be a cute little bedroom—in the bathroom, under the sofa.

It doesn’t take long to establish that Smokey is definitely no longer in the cabin.

Crap.

I grab my coat again, shove my arms into the sleeves, and wrench the door open. The cold cuts right through my clothes. Wow. It’s dark out there.

I turn on my phone’s flashlight.

The beam barely illuminates the snow three feet in front of me.

“Smokey!” I yell into the darkness. “Get your furry butt back here!”

My voice disappears into the night. It sounds thin, too human for this wilderness. Nothing answers—no meow, no movement. Just the soft hiss of snow falling.

I step off the porch, boots sinking to the ankle. “Smokey!” I try again, louder this time. “This isn’t funny, Cat Face!”

Nothing moves in the darkness. The flashlight beam flickers over the path, catching on drifts of white and the black spines of fir trees. I start walking, one hand lifted to block the snow, the other clutching the phone like a lifeline.

I’ve never been anywhere this darn wild before. All my instincts tell me to get the hell back inside. But there’s no way I can let Smokey freeze to death out here.

As I advance into the darkness, my heart’s hammering way harder than it should for a missing cat.

The wind picks up, cold and stinging. My phone light flickers, the battery icon a cruel red sliver.

Then I see it. A small, dark shape darting among the trees. “There you are!”

I take off after it—too fast.

My foot catches on something and I go down hard.

My phone drops, landing face-up in the snow, the light beaming straight into the sky.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, trying to push myself up, but my feet can’t get purchase on the snow.

Somewhere behind me, snow crunches.

I freeze. “Smokey?”

Another crunch, closer this time. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I look around wildly.

Crunch.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

A deep voice.

The beam of my fallen phone catches movement—a tall figure, shoulders broad, the wind streaming his hair back from his face. He steps closer, and the light hits skin. Bare skin.

He’s wearing an open flannel shirt and jeans, no jacket, snow sticking to his chest like it doesn’t dare melt.

“Where did you come from—?” My voice cracks.

He crouches beside me, the storm swirling around us like static.

He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him—impossible heat for a man half-naked in a blizzard.

“Let me help you,” he says.

I look up, following the line of his throat, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the shape of his mouth. My stomach drops, recognition slamming into me before my brain can catch up.

The wind pushes his hair across his forehead and the flashlight catches his eyes—amber brown, bright even in the storm.

“Holt?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, like he’s making sure I’m real, too. The snow clings to his dark hair, melting into rivulets that run down the side of his neck.

“Lila.”

The way he says my name makes the rest of the world vanish. Rough, low, almost a growl under the words.

It’s full of… feeling. Like an ache. Like the sound of an ache.

And everything snaps into focus.

He looks the same.

He looks different.

He looks like every fantasy and every heartbreak came walking out of the trees to find me.

He’s still the man who once made my heart feel too big for my body.

Still the one who shattered it anyway.

Still the man who used to say my name like it was a promise—

Then walked away like it meant nothing at all.