Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
LEAH
Imay have just met the most infuriating man on the planet.
My fingers are nearly numb despite my gloves, and my toes aren't far behind. The temperature has dropped another five degrees in the hour I've been standing here watching Aaron Wilson methodically chop wood like I don't even exist.
Which is exactly what he wants, of course. For me to not exist. At least not on his precious property.
I take another sip of coffee from my thermos, grateful for the warmth that spreads through my chest. The coffee's nearly gone, and once it is, I'll have nothing but stubbornness keeping me warm.
Well, that and the fact that the man chopping wood is giving off enough heat to power a small village. Not just from exertion.
I wasn't prepared for Aaron Wilson to look like... that. When Wren had described the reclusive mountain man who owned the property next to the meadow, I'd imagined some grizzled old hermit with a wild beard and suspicious eyes. Not this specimen of raw masculinity straight out of a romance novel.
He's at least six foot three, with broad shoulders that strain against his flannel shirt. His dark beard is neatly trimmed, framing a jaw that could cut glass. And his eyes—piercing blue like the mountain sky after a storm—hold the kind of intensity that makes it hard to look away.
Not that I'm noticing. I'm here on business. Important business that this stubborn man is jeopardizing with his ridiculous need for isolation.
I stamp my feet to keep the blood flowing and steal another glance at him.
The rhythmic swing of the ax reveals powerful arms covered in intricate tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
Military, if I had to guess. There's a controlled precision to his movements that speaks of discipline and training.
"You're still here," he says without looking at me, his deep voice startling in the quiet forest.
"I told you I would be."
He grunts, setting up another log. "Most people don't usually follow through on stupid ideas."
"Most people don't usually threaten charity events for sick children," I counter, hugging my arms around myself against the cold.
That gets me a sideways glance, his blue eyes narrowing. "I'm not threatening anything. I'm protecting my property rights."
"From what? Joy? Community spirit? The sound of children laughing?"
The ax comes down with extra force, splitting the log in one clean stroke. "From noise. Traffic. Strangers. Take your pick."
I sigh, watching my breath cloud in front of me. "It's two days, Mr. Wilson. Two days that could make a real difference to kids who need it."
He doesn't respond, just continues his methodical chopping. The pile of split wood beside him has grown impressively large. I wonder if he's showing off or if he really needs that much firewood.
I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the time. I'm supposed to meet with the vendor coordinator in town at four. That gives me another hour to try to persuade Mount Grumpy.
The cold is becoming harder to ignore, seeping through my coat and into my bones. I should have worn my thermal leggings under these jeans, but I hadn't planned on an outdoor standoff when I dressed this morning.
This morning feels like a lifetime ago. I'd woken up optimistic, ready to finalize the last details for the Winter Wonderland. I'd been organizing this event for months, coordinating with Wren and her volunteers, securing sponsors, arranging vendors, designing promotional materials.
Everything had been falling into place perfectly until Mayor Johnston called to inform me that the reclusive owner of the property adjacent to our event site was refusing access. That's when he'd asked me to try my hand at persuasion.
"You have a way with people," he'd said. "If anyone can change his mind, it's you."
So much for that vote of confidence.
I take the last sip of my coffee, savoring the warmth. When I lower the thermos, I find Aaron watching me, his expression unreadable.
"You're shivering," he states flatly.
"It's twenty degrees out. People tend to do that."
"Most people would have the sense to leave."
"I'm not most people." I straighten my spine, refusing to let him see how the cold is affecting me.
"And this isn't just about me. There are fifty volunteers counting on this event happening.
Three hundred tickets sold to families excited to bring their children.
Eight thousand dollars in expected donations for pediatric cancer research. "
Something flickers in his eyes—so briefly I almost miss it—before the stony mask returns. He stabs the ax into the chopping block with finality.
"Come on," he says, turning toward the cabin.
I blink at him. "What?"
"You're freezing, and I'm not having you get hypothermia on my property. Too much paperwork." He starts walking without waiting to see if I follow. "You can warm up inside. Then you're leaving."
I hesitate, staring at his broad back as he strides toward the rustic cabin nestled among the pines.
On one hand, going inside with a stranger in the middle of nowhere isn't exactly following safety protocols.
On the other hand, he's right—I'm freezing, and at least inside I might have a better chance of convincing him.
Plus, I'm curious about what kind of home a man like Aaron Wilson keeps.
I follow him, struggling a bit in my heeled boots as they sink into the soft ground. The cabin comes into clearer view as we approach. It's larger than I'd expected, constructed of dark timber and stone with a wraparound porch. Smoke curls from a river rock chimney, promising warmth inside.
He opens the heavy wooden door without ceremony and gestures for me to enter. I step inside, instantly enveloped by blessed warmth radiating from a crackling fire in a massive stone fireplace that dominates one wall of the open living space.
The interior surprises me. I'd expected sparse bachelor accommodations, but this space is thoughtfully designed.
Exposed wooden beams cross the high ceiling.
A large sectional sofa faces the fireplace, covered in soft-looking blankets.
The kitchen area features a large island and modern appliances integrated seamlessly with rustic cabinetry.
Most striking are the windows—floor to ceiling on two walls, framing the spectacular mountain views like living artwork. The place manages to feel both rugged and comfortable at once.
"Sit," Aaron commands, pointing to the sofa. "I'll make coffee."
"You don't have to—"
"You're out of coffee, you're still shivering, and I don't want you passing out from hypothermia on my watch." He moves to the kitchen area. "Sit."
I sink onto the sofa, unable to resist the promise of warmth. A handwoven blanket is draped over the back, and I pull it around my shoulders, sighing with relief as feeling begins to return to my extremities.
From my position, I can observe him moving efficiently around the kitchen. His movements are precise, economical. No wasted motion. He seems more at ease here than he did outside, though no less guarded.
"This is a beautiful home," I say, trying to find some common ground. "Did you build it yourself?"
"Most of it." His reply is curt as he sets a kettle on the stove.
"It's not what I expected."
That earns me a raised eyebrow as he turns to look at me. "What did you expect? A cave? Bear skins on the floor?"
"Maybe a little less... design sense," I admit. "The integration of the windows with the natural surroundings is really thoughtful."
Something almost like satisfaction crosses his face before he turns back to the counter. "Function over form. The windows face south and east. Solar gain in winter."
"Still beautiful."
He makes a noncommittal sound, focusing on measuring coffee grounds into a French press. The domestic normalcy of the moment feels surreal after our standoff outside.
I take the opportunity to look around more carefully.
No personal photos that I can see, though there are several framed prints of mountain landscapes on the walls.
A bookshelf near the fireplace is filled with an eclectic mix—military history, engineering manuals, wilderness survival guides, and surprisingly, classic literature.
On the coffee table rests a well-worn sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils. The page is open to a detailed drawing of an eagle in flight, the craftsmanship remarkable in its precision and artistry.
"You draw," I say before I can stop myself.
He stiffens slightly but doesn't turn around. "Sometimes."
"That eagle is incredible."
This time he doesn't respond at all, and I mentally kick myself. Clearly, I've crossed some invisible boundary. Note to self: complimenting Aaron Wilson's artistic talents is apparently a violation of mountain man code.
The kettle whistles, breaking the awkward silence. He pours the hot water over the coffee grounds and brings the French press to the coffee table, followed by two mugs.
"It needs to steep," he says, retreating to an armchair opposite me rather than joining me on the sofa.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful for the warmth and the coffee to come. "I appreciate this."
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. "Why is this event so important to you?"
The question catches me off guard. It's the most personal thing he's asked since I arrived.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, considering how to answer. "My sister had leukemia when she was eight. She spent two Christmases in the hospital—one of them was her last."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens fractionally.
"The hospital in Billings treated her. They did everything they could, but the cancer was aggressive.
" I look down at my hands. "Every Christmas since then, I've tried to do something to make the holidays better for kids like her.
When I moved to Grizzly Ridge last year and heard about the Community Foundation's work, I volunteered to head up their holiday fundraiser. "
The timer on his phone chimes softly. He presses down the plunger on the French press and pours the dark coffee into the two mugs, sliding one across the table to me.
I wrap my cold fingers around the warm ceramic, inhaling the rich aroma. "This isn't just another charity event, Mr. Wilson. For some of these kids, it might be their last Christmas. I just want it to be magical."
Aaron takes a sip of his coffee, his face unreadable. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the popping of logs in the fireplace.
"You can use the road," he finally says, his deep voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I nearly spill my coffee. "What?"
"Two days." His eyes lock with mine, serious and intense. "You get two days to use the access road. Friday setup, Saturday event. You're done and cleared out by Sunday morning."
Joy bubbles up in my chest, but I try not to show too much triumph. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That's very—"
"I have conditions," he interrupts. "No one comes near my cabin. You put up clear markers directing people straight to the meadow. And I want your personal guarantee that when it's over, I get my privacy back."
"Absolutely," I nod quickly. "I promise we won't disturb you any more than necessary."
He gives a curt nod, as if the matter is settled. "Drink your coffee. Then you're leaving."
I hide my smile behind my mug. Mission accomplished, even if my toes might never forgive me for the frostbite.
As I sip the perfectly brewed coffee, I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something in his gaze I can't quite decipher, something beyond the gruffness and irritation.
For just a moment, I wonder what secrets Aaron Wilson is keeping behind those storm-blue eyes and walls of solitude.
Then I remind myself it doesn't matter. I got what I came for. Two days of access to save our event.
I'll be out of his life by Sunday morning, and he can go back to being the mountain hermit of Grizzly Ridge.
End of story.
Or at least, that's what I tell myself.