Christmas with the Mountain Man (Christmas in Hope Peak #5)

Chapter 1

Willa

I always imagined leaving home would feel like freedom.

Me behind the wheel, highway stretched out in front of me, the past shrinking in the rearview mirror while my favorite song played and the wind tangled in my hair. Maybe I’d cry. Maybe I’d laugh. Either way, I thought it would feel cinematic.

It doesn’t.

My hands are clenched around the wheel so tight my knuckles ache. The defroster is working overtime, and my breath still clouds the windshield because I’ve been talking to myself like a woman on the verge for the last forty miles.

This is fine, I mutter. Totally fine, Willa. You’re twenty-two. You have your own money, your own little car, and your own... bakery.

The word still sounds made up when I say it out loud.

A bakery.

Left to me by a grandmother I never met, in a town I didn’t know existed until six months ago.

A bakery that came with a letter from a lawyer explaining that my grandmother had been quietly sponsoring my life from behind the curtain, paying for my culinary training through so-called scholarships and contest wins I thought were fate.

Turns out they were family.

That money paid for the supplies stacked in the back seat of my car. Flour, sugar, a few treasured pans, and the French rolling pin my last pastry chef told me I’d earned.

It also bought me this chance. This quiet little escape from a life I was done pretending to love.

From Jack.

My ex-fiancé.

The man who swore he adored my curves, right up until the moment he started comparing me to the women he was texting behind my back. Someone thinner. Sharper. Smaller. Someone easier.

He didn’t want a partner. He wanted a woman who stayed quiet, stayed sweet, stayed less.

He wanted a good girl with a hollow center.

Not someone who questions things. Not someone who takes up space.

Not someone like me.

Fresh start. I keep saying the words like they’ll eventually stick.

New beginning. Clean slate.

No more pretending I don’t see the red flags.

No more shrinking to fit inside someone else's idea of love.

Just me. And Hope Peak.

My mom told me I lived here once. Briefly.

I was a baby. My father was violent. Controlling. And when my mom realized his family wanted to keep me, to raise me here without her, she ran. She packed up what she could carry and left in the middle of the night with me.

And now I’m coming back, with her blessing.

It’s late afternoon when I finally turn off the highway onto a narrow, two-lane road. Pines crowd both sides, their snow-covered branches heavy and still. The sky has faded into a pale gray, full of unspoken promises.

I crack the window. The cold bites instantly, but the air smells like pine, woodsmoke, and something faintly sweet.

It smells like possibility.

The knot in my chest loosens.

A weathered wooden sign appears ahead, carved by hand.

Welcome to Hope Peak

A wreath of pine branches hangs below it, tied with a red velvet bow.

Another sign points left: Snowcap Inn

That’s where I’m headed. The bakery is next door. The two buildings have been neighbors for decades, according to the lawyer. Sisters in wood and stone.

My tires crunch over packed snow as I turn, and there it is.

The Snowcap Inn. A wide, two-story house with dark wood siding and a wraparound porch. There’s smoke rising from the chimney, curling into the cold air like a greeting. A carved wooden sign swings gently in the wind.

Two trucks are parked out front. One idles with a plow attached. The other looks like it belongs here, part of the scenery.

And then I see him.

At first, it’s just a man bent over a shovel. Tall. Solid. Wearing a flannel. Jeans tucked into heavy boots. His posture tells me he isn’t just working; he’s built for this. Built for snow and labor and long days that require strength you don’t get in a gym.

No showmanship. No straining. Just quiet force.

My gaze lingers on the way his shoulders move beneath the flannel, the grounded ease in his stance. I can’t see much of his face, just a knit beanie and dark hair poking out from beneath it. But even from here, there’s something still about him. Something weighty.

My heart thumps in my chest before I can reason with it.

He doesn’t look up as I pass.

Good. He looks like trouble anyway. I probably wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

Beside the inn sits a smaller building painted soft turquoise with white trim. A curved sign swings above the door.

Hope Peak Bakehouse

I park. Step out. Breathe.

The front window is frosted at the edges. Gold lettering on the glass spells out the name, with a tiny cupcake doodled beside it. A little crooked. A little perfect.

My fingers fumble over the keys.

I push open the door. The bell overhead jingles, bright and clear.

And the scent that greets me nearly buckles my knees.

Faint traces of yeast, vanilla, sugar.

It’s old, buried under six months of stillness, but it’s there. A memory clinging to the walls.

I step inside and close the door quickly. The cold clings to my clothes anyway.

The interior is simple. Charming. A glass display case stretches along one wall. An old oak counter sits beside it. Two small café tables rest under the front window with mismatched chairs. String lights hang from the ceiling beams, casting a warm glow.

Behind the counter, a swinging door reveals a stainless steel kitchen.

My kitchen.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until it rushes out, sharp and shaky.

Tears blur my vision.

Not just grief, though there is some of that. For the woman I never met. For the relationship we never had.

But gratitude too.

Gratitude for a woman who reached across silence to give me something of my own.

Gratitude that she saw me. Believed in me.

I press my hands to the counter and let the feeling anchor itself in my chest.

This is yours now.

I wipe my eyes and square my shoulders. “Okay,” I whisper. “You can do this.”

Then I laugh, soft and shaky, because maybe I was born for this.

I move through the swinging door to explore the rest. A narrow hallway extends from the kitchen, leading to a small room in the back with a simple twin bed, a built-in wardrobe, and a tiny adjoining bathroom with a shower and pedestal sink. It’s plain but clean. Lived in but waiting for me.

A quiet place to sleep. To breathe. To start over.

I return to the front, ready to grab another box from the car.

But I stop cold.

Outside the window, the man from before is walking back to his truck. He tosses the shovel into the bed, wipes his brow with the back of a gloved hand, and reaches for the door.

Then he turns.

Our eyes meet through the glass.

He freezes. So do I.

Up close, he’s sharper. Rougher. Square jaw dusted with stubble. Dark hair cropped short on the sides, longer on top. His nose looks like it’s been broken before.

But his eyes…

Gray. Cold and bright, like polished silver. The kind of eyes that see too much too fast.

Heat spikes low in my belly before I can stop it. A rush of warmth at the base of my spine. My breath catches. My pulse jumps. My body reacts before my brain can tell it to behave, and I hate how immediate it is.

I raise a hand in a small wave, my fingers trembling.

He doesn’t wave back.

Just a simple nod. Like he’s already made up his mind about me.

Then he climbs into his truck and pulls away.

The silence he leaves behind hums louder than it should.

I press my hand to my chest.

“Grumpy and gorgeous,” I whisper. “Of course.”

Hours pass in a blur of unpacking. I carry box after box inside until only one remains. The light outside has dimmed. The cold has sharpened. The snow on the walk has hardened into an almost invisible slick.

I reach for the door, ready to grab the last load.

I make it halfway to the trunk when my boot hits a patch of ice.

My foot skids.

My balance vanishes.

The world tilts in one violent swoop, cold air rushing past my ears.

My stomach drops and a shocked sound tears from my throat.

But I never hit the ground.

A pair of strong arms wraps around my waist, lifting me off the ice like I weigh nothing at all. One hand braces between my shoulder blades, the other grips my hip, holding me against a wall of heat and muscle and breath.

For a heartbeat, I’m suspended. Weightless. Held.

My palms flatten against solid chest, and when I look up, gray eyes stare down at me from only inches away.

And everything inside me goes quiet.

Not calm.

Not peaceful.

Just quiet. Like my entire body recognizes him before my mind catches up.

My breath stutters.

His gaze doesn’t waver. His jaw tightens. I feel the tension coil off him in waves. Heat, irritation, and something else.

He doesn’t speak.

Not until I do.

“Sorry,” I whisper, trying to steady myself. “The ice—”

His arms don’t move.

Then, finally, he speaks. Almost annoyed.

Like it costs him something to say it at all.

“Careful. You always this reckless?”

I’m still wrapped in his arms, chest pressed to his, my fingers curled into the flannel like they’re not ready to let go.

My heart is doing something wild and stupid in my ribs.

I tilt my head back, meeting that storm-gray stare.

“Guess I like to make an entrance.”

His jaw flexes. His grip tightens, just slightly. Like he isn’t sure whether to set me down or hold on longer.

“Next time, wear boots that can handle Hope Peak.”