Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
AARON
The last twinkling lights of the Winter Wonderland event shine across the fresh snow as I help load the final pieces of the carousel onto the transport truck. My muscles burn pleasantly from the hours of physical labor, a welcome distraction from the way my attention keeps drifting to Leah.
She stands at the edge of the meadow, clipboard in hand, cheeks flushed from the cold as she checks items off her list. Snowflakes catch in her dark hair, and even from this distance, I can see the satisfaction in her smile as she surveys what they've accomplished today.
Over twelve thousand dollars raised for the children's hospital. Hundreds of families given a day of Christmas joy. All because she refused to take no for an answer from a grumpy mountain man.
The thought brings an unexpected warmth to my chest.
"That's the last of it, Mr. Wilson," says one of the volunteers, slamming the truck's rear door shut. "Thanks for all your help today."
I nod, uncomfortable with the gratitude but trying not to show it. "No problem."
As the final vehicles pull away, leaving tracks in the fresh snow, an unusual quiet settles over the meadow. The space that hours ago buzzed with laughter and music now returns to its natural state, peaceful and pristine beneath the darkening sky.
I should head back to my cabin. Back to solitude and silence. Back to the life I've carefully constructed away from people and their complications.
Instead, my feet carry me toward Leah.
She turns as I approach, a smile blooming across her face that hits me with physical force. "We did it," she says, hugging the clipboard to her chest. "Thank you for everything, Aaron. The generator, the help with teardown... all of it."
"It was a good event," I admit, surprised to find I actually mean it. "Those kids seemed happy."
"They were." Her eyes shine in the fading light. "The hospital director called. We exceeded our fundraising goal by almost forty percent."
A snowflake lands on her cheek, and before I can think better of it, I reach out to brush it away. Her skin is soft and cold beneath my fingertips. She goes still at the contact, those green eyes widening slightly.
"You must be freezing," I say, dropping my hand. "And hungry."
"Starving, actually," she admits with a small laugh. "I was so busy I forgot to eat."
Words form in my throat, surprising even me as they emerge. "Have dinner with me."
It comes out more command than question, and I wince internally at my lack of social grace. But Leah doesn't seem to mind.
"I'd like that," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maggie's is the only place open this late."
"Maggie's it is."
Twenty minutes later, we sit across from each other in a corner booth at the town's only diner.
The place is half-empty, though the few patrons present don't bother hiding their curiosity about the mountain recluse dining with the town's event coordinator.
I ignore their stares, focusing instead on how the candlelight catches the gold flecks in Leah's eyes.
"I still can't believe you gave that carved horse to that little girl ," she says, breaking a dinner roll in half. "The detail was incredible."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "It was nothing. Just something to pass the time while watching the carousel."
"It wasn't nothing to her." Leah's voice softens. "That little girl has been through more in her five years than most adults face in a lifetime. You gave her a piece of magic."
Heat rises in my neck. I reach for my water glass to hide my discomfort, accidentally brushing Leah's fingers as she reaches for the same. The brief contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm.
"Sorry," we both say simultaneously, then laugh, breaking the tension.
Our meals arrive, and conversation flows with surprising ease. I find myself telling her about my furniture commissions, about the cradle I'm building for a couple in Billings. She listens with genuine interest, asking questions that show she understands the craftsmanship involved.
In turn, she tells me about growing up in Seattle, about moving to Grizzly Ridge after her sister's death, about finding purpose in community service. As she speaks of Katie, her voice drops, fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on her water glass.
"It never really goes away," she says, eyes downcast. "The missing them. Katie would have enjoyed this event."
Without thinking, I reach across the table to cover her hand with mine. Her skin is warm now, soft beneath my calloused palm. "You honored her today. Those kids will remember this Christmas."
She looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears and something else—something that makes my chest tighten and my pulse quicken. "Thank you for understanding."
When the check comes, I insist on paying despite her protests. Outside, snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, coating the sidewalk in fresh powder. The temperature has dropped further, and Leah shivers beside me despite her heavy coat.
"My apartment's just upstairs," she says, nodding toward the bakery next door. "Would you like to come up for coffee? It's the least I can offer after you paid for dinner."
We both know it isn't about coffee. The awareness hangs between us, electric and undeniable.
"Yes," I say simply.
Her apartment is small but undeniably Leah—colorful throws draped over the furniture, books stacked on every surface, Christmas decorations adding warmth to the cozy space. She moves to the tiny kitchen, filling a kettle with practiced motions.
"Make yourself comfortable," she says, gesturing toward the sofa. "I'll just be a minute."
I remain standing, suddenly hyperaware of my large frame in this intimate space. My gaze travels over framed photographs on the wall—Leah with an older couple who must be her parents, Leah surrounded by volunteers at various community events.
"That's Katie," she says quietly, noticing where my attention has landed. She sets two mugs on the counter and moves to stand beside me. "My sister. That was taken six months before she was diagnosed."
In the photo, two young girls grin at the camera, arms around each other's shoulders, the family resemblance unmistakable despite Katie's lighter hair. The happiness in their expressions makes something ache deep in my chest.
"She looked happy," I say.
Leah's breath catches. She turns to face me, close enough that I can smell the vanilla and spice scent of her skin. "Aaron—"
Whatever she was about to say is lost as I close the distance between us, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly ignites into something hungry and desperate. Her lips part beneath mine, soft and warm and tasting faintly of the cherry pie she had for dessert.
For a heartbeat, she freezes, and I fear I've misread everything. Then her arms wind around my neck, body melting against mine as she returns the kiss with equal passion. My hands find her waist, drawing her closer until there's no space left between us.
The kettle whistles, startling us both. Leah laughs against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. "Terrible timing."
"I'm not here for coffee," I admit, voice rough with desire.
"Thank God." She reaches behind her to turn off the stove without breaking away. "Neither am I."
My hands slide beneath her sweater, finding warm skin. She shivers at the touch, pressing closer. When my fingers trace the curve of her spine, she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that sends heat straight to my groin.
"Bedroom?" I ask, giving her a final chance to change her mind.
In answer, she takes my hand and leads me down a short hallway.
Her bedroom is bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights strung around the window, illuminating a space that's purely Leah—books on the nightstand, colorful quilts on the bed, a framed photograph of mountain sunrise that I recognize as the view from my property.
She notices my gaze lingering on the photo. "I took that the morning after the Winter Wonderland setup. The sunrise was too beautiful not to capture."
"You've been watching my mountain," I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
"Just like you've been watching me." She steps closer, fingers working at the buttons of my flannel shirt. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
I capture her hands, bringing them to my lips. "You're hard not to watch."
Color blooms in her cheeks at the compliment. I release her hands to cup her face, thumbs stroking her flushed skin as I lower my mouth to hers again. This kiss is slower, deeper, a thorough exploration rather than a desperate crash.
Her fingers resume their work on my buttons, pushing my shirt from my shoulders once the last one is free. I tense involuntarily as cool air hits my scarred skin. No one has seen my body since Afghanistan, the roadmap of violence written across my chest and back.
Leah senses my hesitation. Her hands still, eyes finding mine. "We can stop if you want."
"No," I say, voice rough. "I want this. I want you. It's just been... a long time."
Understanding softens her features. She presses a gentle kiss to my collarbone, then to a shrapnel scar near my shoulder. "You're beautiful, Aaron."
The word should sound ridiculous applied to a battle-scarred body like mine, but the sincerity in her voice silences any protest. Her hands explore my chest with reverent touches, tracing each scar, each tattoo, learning me by touch.
I reach for the hem of her sweater, seeking permission with my eyes. At her nod, I pull it over her head, revealing a simple black bra against creamy skin. My breath catches at the sight of her, soft curves a stark contrast to my hard angles.
"Beautiful," I murmur, echoing her earlier compliment.
Her smile turns shy, hands rising to cover herself instinctively.
"Don't," I say, gently catching her wrists. "Let me see you. All of you."