Chapter 18
Harper
The restaurant at the Grand View Lodge is quieter than I’ve ever seen it.
Most of the dinner crowd is gone, leaving only the low clink of distant dishes and the soft crackle from the stone fireplace near our table.
The lights are dim, candlelight pooling gently over white tablecloths and polished wood.
Outside the tall windows, snow drifts down in lazy flakes, dusting the dark pines.
If I were watching this in a movie, I’d roll my eyes at how romantic it looks. Instead, I’m sitting here with Ethan Kinkaid, pretending I’m not completely gone for him.
The server refills our water and leaves us with two plates of roasted chicken and winter vegetables that smell incredible.
We’ve barely touched the bread basket, too busy stealing glances at each other whenever we think the other person isn’t looking.
I’m learning that we’re both terrible at being subtle.
Ethan leans back slightly, the firelight tracing along his jaw and catching tiny strands in his beard. He looks super sexy like this. Less like the mountain hermit and more like a man who could ruin your sense of reality with one look. Which he already has.
I stab a roasted carrot, mostly to give my hands something to do. “This hardly feels like part of an official town itinerary,” I say lightly.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “What, the cocoa and interrogation stations weren’t enough for one day?”
I smile. “We did survive the cocoa gauntlet.”
“And the gingerbread disaster,” he adds.
“Hey,” I protest. “Our cabin had character.”
“It had structural issues.”
“It was charming.”
“It was leaning.”
I grin. “Makes me wonder if your real cabin doesn’t lean a little too.”
He opens his mouth to reply, then stops. Narrows his eyes at me instead. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
“Not with you,” I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze lingers on my face, something unreadable there. Heat rises in my cheeks. I busily cut into my chicken, trying not to overanalyze the way my heart is suddenly doing tiny cartwheels.
After a few minutes of quiet eating, I set my fork down and fold my hands in my lap. The words are there, crowding my throat, and if I don’t say them now, I’ll chicken out.
“So,” I begin carefully, “can I ask you something without you going full Grinch on me?”
His brow lifts. “Define ‘full Grinch.’”
“You know.” I gesture vaguely. “The whole … mountain hermit, growly, ‘people are terrible and I only talk to trees’ vibe.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t talk to trees.”
“That’s the part you’re arguing with?”
He gives me a look that says, stop making me smile in public.
I lean closer, resting my forearms on the table.
“All this time, you’ve lived up there, mostly on your own.
You avoid town stuff. You act like you hate everyone.
” I pause and soften my tone. “So why this? Why now? Why agree to be paraded around as a holiday groom?”
His jaw flexes. For a moment, I worry I pushed too hard. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s setting something heavy down. His gaze drops to the table, then lifts to the fire, watching the flames dance.
“It wasn’t my idea,” he says finally.
I don’t say anything. I just wait. He drags a hand over his beard. “I’ve had a petition and a lawsuit with the town over the property lines.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’ve heard … things.”
“Most of them probably wrong,” he mutters.
“My granddad settled that land before half of Cady Springs was even a cluster of cabins. We had markers. Old ones. Over time, things shifted. The town filed new maps, someone else claimed a slice that was never theirs … and when I inherited what was left, I realized what we’d lost.”
There’s a roughness in his voice I haven’t heard before. A tired edge.
“Why is that piece so important?” I ask.
He glances at me. There’s a memory in his eyes now, something older than both of us.
“My grandfather built his first cabin there,” he says.
“Before the one I live in now. Just a one-room shack, really. No insulation. No proper roof. But he always said that patch of ground was where he learned how to survive. Where he decided who he wanted to be.” His throat works.
“My dad took me there when I was a kid. Told me we keep it in the family. That some things don’t get bought or traded. They just … stay.”
My chest aches.
“So when I found out the town’s fancy new maps had swallowed that strip into ‘public land,’ I fought it,” he continues. “Lawyers. Fees. Meetings with people who have never touched a tree on that mountain but suddenly think they know where history starts and ends.”
He shakes his head, frustration edging his words.
“And Janice?” I prompt gently.
His mouth flattens. “Janice came to me before the auction. and made me an offer if I would be what she called “the main draw”. She needed more bachelors. In exchange, she offered to settle and sign off on the survey that favors my side. Confirm the boundary markers. I play along for a week, put on a smile, let everyone have their holiday circus, and the land is officially mine again.”
I let that sink in.
“So you agreed,” I say softly.
“I agreed,” he echoes. “For the land. Not for…” His gaze flickers to my mouth, then away. “Not for this.”
Heat curls low in my stomach.
“This,” I repeat quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “… didn’t factor into my calculations.”
I swallow, fingers tightening around my napkin. “Do you regret factoring it in now?”
His head snaps to me, eyes sharp, surprised. “No.”
The answer comes fast. Too fast to be anything but honest. He blinks, as if realizing how quickly he said it, then adds, quieter, “No. I don’t.”
My heart does a stupid, hopeful little somersault. We sit there for a moment, just looking at each other, the fire throwing soft light over his face, his eyes, his guarded mouth that I now know tastes like sweet surrender.
“You know,” I say, trying to catch my breath and failing, “for a guy who claims to hate people, you sure spent a lot of time today making sure I didn’t get knocked over, frozen, or mobbed for gossip.”
“Someone had to keep you upright,” he replies.
“Someone?” I tease. “Just anyone?”
He huffs. “No.”
“Who then?”
“Me,” he says simply.
Something in my chest cracks open a little more. We finish our food in silence, but it seems like there are a hundred things we’re not saying yet. Finally, the server brings the check. Ethan reaches for it without hesitation.
I arch a brow. “I thought you were extremely opposed to unnecessary spending.”
“This isn’t unnecessary,” he says.
“Is that your way of saying you had a nice time?” I ask softly.
“It’s my way of saying I can buy you dinner without having a panic attack.”
I laugh, and his lips curve in that almost-smile I’m starting to live for.
“Thank you,” I say after a moment.
“For what?”
“For telling me about the land. For … letting me in.” I hesitate. “You didn’t have to.”
His hand moves, fingertip brushing the back of my knuckles before his fingers curl around mine.
“You didn’t have to care,” he says quietly. “But you do.”
We walk the rest of the way like that, hands joined, neither of us mentioning it, but both of us very aware. At the door to our suite, my heart is beating so fast I’m almost dizzy.
If this were just a fake holiday week, this would be the part where I remind myself it’s all pretend. That in a few days, the lights will come down, the auction will be forgotten, and we’ll go our separate ways.
But as Ethan unlocks the door and glances back at me, something unguarded in his eyes, that belief feels thinner than the mountain air. The Grinch on the mountain isn’t just a story anymore.
He has a heart. And I’m terrified he’s letting me hold part of it.