Mountain Man’s Curvy Christmas Gift (Grumpy Christmas Mountain Man #19)

Chapter 1

Greta

“Happy is just a heartbeat away from ‘holy crap, it’s happening again.’”

It’s an ordinary Tuesday at the diner—which means I’ve refilled Mr. Canter’s decaf four times, dodged a marriage proposal from Guy the mailman (he’s eighty-two and losing his hearing, but I still said “maybe” to keep things interesting), and burned precisely one grilled cheese because I was too busy eavesdropping on Nate Bishop asking for extra whipped cream on his pie.

Yes. Whipped cream. On pie. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody has a sweet tooth he pretends not to have, and I’m not above weaponizing that knowledge.

“You sure you don’t want the whole can?” I ask, sliding the plate in front of him with a little flourish.

Nate lifts an eyebrow without looking up. “You trying to get me killed?”

“By what, diabetes or desire?” I quip, then immediately regret it because yikes, Greta, tone it down.

His mouth twitches. A win. I mark it down on my invisible scoreboard.

“I’ll take my chances,” he mutters, then forks a bite of cherry pie so sinful it should come with a warning label.

I fan myself dramatically. “You know, if you smiled more, women would probably stop breathing in a three-mile radius.”

“That sounds messy.”

“Oh, I love a man who plans ahead.”

Nate smirks, just a flicker, then drops his attention back to the pie like it personally offends him. Typical. He’s been coming in here for months—quiet, calm, always watching—but the man’s harder to read than the town budget. Still, I’ve noticed a few things:

He sits facing the door. Always.

He watches me more than he watches the pie. And he really likes the pie.

He’s got that ex-military, don’t-touch-my-trauma vibe… which would normally be a red flag, except I’ve got my own collection of waving red banners.

And today? Today one of them’s lying in wait under the napkin holder.

I find it during cleanup—lunch rush is over, everyone’s drifted out, and Nate’s the last customer still sipping his coffee like he’s got nowhere else to be.

I’m wiping down table five when my hand brushes paper.

A folded note, plain white, no envelope.

Probably a scribbled thank-you or “best pie in town” or—

No.

Not this.

Not now.

My fingers go cold.

Because written in neat, familiar handwriting are six words that shouldn’t exist in this town:

You always hated the cold, Bunny.

My heart drops straight into my boots.

Nobody calls me Bunny. Nobody but him.

My ex.

The man I ran from five years ago with nothing but a duffel bag, a half-tank of gas, and the very real fear that if I didn’t leave right then, I wasn’t going to leave at all.

And now he’s here.

In Timber Creek.

I look up, scanning the room, but there’s no one—just Nate, half-finished coffee in one hand, eyes already locked on me.

“Greta?”

I fold the note fast, tucking it into my apron like it’s nothing but a receipt. I must be pale because Nate’s already rising, every muscle going tight like a wire pulled taut.

“You good?”

I force a smile. “Yeah! Just, uh… brain freeze. From the whipped cream air.”

His frown deepens.

Okay, yeah. That was a dumb excuse.

I grab the checkbook, trying to look normal. “Want me to box up the rest of that pie? You look like a leftovers kind of guy.”

“Greta.”

The way he says my name? Low. Steady. It does something to me. Something that makes me want to tell him everything and also bolt for the back door.

“I’m fine,” I lie, because I don’t know how to be not fine out loud.

But Nate Bishop is not an idiot. He’s been in enough places, seen enough people to know what it looks like when someone’s trying to smile with a wolf at their heels.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a business card—plain white, no logo, just his name and a number.

“If something’s wrong,” he says, voice quiet, “call me.”

My throat closes. I don’t nod. I don’t thank him. I just take the card like it might burn me and slide it into the front pocket of my apron right next to the note.

He leaves after that. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t linger. Just pushes back his chair, drops cash on the table, and gives me one last glance like he’s memorizing the shape of me in case he needs to follow it into the dark.

When the door shuts behind him, the bell jingles like it always does, like everything’s normal. But the air feels heavier now. Charged.

I head to the back, duck into the walk-in cooler, and lean my head against the metal shelf of pickles until the sting behind my eyes fades.

He found me.

He found me.

And I don’t know how. I changed my name. Moved three states. Got a new job, a new laugh, a new life. I’ve kept to myself, never told anyone the full truth, not even myself—because the real me hasn’t existed since I ran.

But that note? That handwriting?

It means the man I thought I left behind… is back.

And he wants me to know it.

The cooler hums. My hands are shaking. I think about calling Nate.

I won’t.

Not yet.

But I keep the card.

Because I have a feeling I’m going to need him.

And I’m not just talking about protection.