Chapter Two
“Deck the Halls (Whether You Want To Or Not)"
Pax
Butter melting in a hot pan. Sugar caramelizing. The sharp bite of cinnamon. The unfamiliar scents infiltrated my sleep, yanking me from the black void of dreamlessness. My cabin never smelled like this—like someone else's home.
Then I remembered. The sprite. The woman I'd reluctantly let in from the storm. Pepper.
I groaned, rolling over to check the time. 7:38 AM. Later than I usually slept, but the howling wind had kept me up half the night. That, and the knowledge that a strange woman—a very strange one—was sleeping on my couch and being hunted by the town's mayor, of all people.
The metallic clang of a pan being set down propelled me out of bed. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a thermal shirt before descending the stairs from my loft bedroom, preparing to assess whatever damage my uninvited guest had caused.
I halted at the bottom of the stairs.
My kitchen—my precisely arranged, minimalist kitchen—had been transformed into what looked like the aftermath of a baking competition.
Flour dusted the countertops. Eggshells and measuring cups cluttered the sink.
And there, humming "Jingle Bells" while expertly flipping something in my cast-iron skillet, stood Pepper.
She wore my clothes—a flannel shirt that hung to her mid-thigh and sweatpants rolled up multiple times at the ankles. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she'd apparently abandoned the ridiculous elf shoes, padding around my kitchen in thick wool socks. My socks.
"What," I said flatly, "are you doing?"
She spun around, spatula raised like a weapon, then broke into a smile that was far too cheerful for the early hour. Or any hour, in my opinion.
"Good morning, sunshine! Hope you like pancakes."
I approached the stove, inspecting the skillet. "Those aren't pancakes."
"Sure they are. Christmas pancakes." She flipped one onto a waiting plate, revealing its distinct evergreen tree shape.
Next to it sat something vaguely resembling a snowman and what I assumed was supposed to be Santa's face.
"I found a squeeze bottle of syrup in your cabinet. Makes for decent pancake art."
My jaw tightened as I surveyed the invasion of my carefully ordered space. "You went through my cabinets."
She had the decency to look slightly abashed. "Only the kitchen ones. You have a very...systematic organization method."
"Force of habit from the Marines." I ran a hand through my hair, mentally shifting to alert status despite the sleep still fogging my brain. Three years since Afghanistan, and I still categorized threats from least to most urgent: elf-on-the-run, ruined kitchen, bad weather.
"How long have you been up?" I asked.
"Couple hours. Couldn't sleep with all that going on." She gestured toward the windows, where the blizzard still raged unabated.
I gravitated to the coffee maker—at least she'd had the sense to brew a pot—and poured myself a mug.
"I hope you don't mind," she chirped, wielding the spatula with a flourish as she transferred the last misshapen pancake to the plate. "I figured making breakfast was the least I could do after you saved me from becoming a Christmas popsicle."
I grunted noncommittally, taking a long sip of coffee. It was good. Strong, the way I liked it.
"There's bacon keeping warm in the oven, too," she added, sliding the plate of festive pancakes across the counter toward me.
My stomach betrayed me with a growl. It had been a while since anyone had cooked for me. Years, probably.
"Thanks," I muttered, taking the plate.
She beamed as if I'd delivered a lengthy compliment. "You're welcome! I wasn't sure if you were a syrup or butter person, so I put out both."
I doctored the pancakes and took a bite. They were...surprisingly good. Fluffy, with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg I hadn't tasted since my mother's holiday breakfasts years ago.
Pepper watched expectantly, her bright green eyes fixed on my reaction.
"They're fine," I conceded.
Her smile widened. "High praise from the mountain man. I'll take it."
I took another bite to avoid responding, using the moment to actually look at her in proper light.
Without the ridiculous costume and with the snow melted from her hair, I could see she was pretty.
Not in the polished, artificial way of the few women I'd encountered in town during my rare supply runs, but in a vibrant, lively way that seemed to brighten even the winter-darkened cabin.
A detail from last night surfaced. "Your hat," I said. "The evidence is still in it?"
"Safe and sound." She pointed to the pointy green monstrosity drying near the fireplace, perched on top of her elf costume. "USB drive is tucked in the lining."
I nodded, relieved that at least that part of her wild story wasn't a hallucination. "Good."
Finishing my coffee, I stood to refill my mug, then froze as I turned toward the living room. For the first time, I noticed what she'd done to the space beyond the kitchen.
My austere, practical living room had been "enhanced.
" Paper snowflakes, clearly cut from pages torn from the back of one of my field notebooks, hung from the ceiling fan.
The stack of firewood by the hearth had been rearranged to form what appeared to be a Christmas tree silhouette.
And my lone throw blanket had been artfully draped over the couch with decorative pinecones placed along its edge.
"What," I said with dangerous calm, "did you do to my living room?"
Pepper followed my gaze, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "A few festive touches. This place was seriously lacking in Christmas spirit."
"That was intentional."
"Nobody intentionally lacks Christmas spirit," she said, as if this were a universally accepted fact.
"I do." I set my mug down hard enough to slosh coffee onto the counter. "I don't do Christmas."
She looked genuinely perplexed. "Everyone does Christmas."
"Not me." I gestured at her makeshift decorations. "Take those down."
Instead of complying, she crossed her arms. "Why? What's wrong with a little seasonal cheer?"
I didn't answer. My reasons were my own, and I sure as hell wasn't sharing them with a stranger who'd invaded my home, my kitchen, and now my living room.
"Look," she said, softer now. "We're stuck here together. I connected to your satellite internet and checked the weather app when I got up, and it's not letting up anytime soon."
I strode to the window, yanking the curtain aside. The world outside was still a solid wall of white. "Let me see."
She handed me her phone, open to a weather radar showing an immense storm system parked stubbornly over the mountains.
"This says three days," I said, studying the forecast. "Minimum."
"Hence the decorations." She gestured around. "If I'm going to be snowed in, I'd rather not feel like I'm in a minimum-security prison."
I glared at her. "It's a cabin."
"A very nice, very stark cabin that could use some warmth."
"It has a fireplace."
She rolled her eyes. "Emotional warmth. Ambiance. Hygge, as the Danes say."
"I'm not Danish."
"No kidding." She took her phone back. "Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped. I was up early, feeling anxious about Nolan, the storm, all of it... and making things is how I cope."
Something in her expression—a flash of genuine worry beneath the cheerful exterior—made me rein in my annoyance.
"Fine," I said. "But no more redecorating without asking."
Her face lit up again. "So I can keep these up?"
I sighed. "For now."
"Victory!" She did a little dance that made the too-big sweatpants slide precariously on her hips. She hitched them back up quickly. "Sorry. I'll try to contain my enthusiasm to acceptable levels."
"Is that possible for you?"
"Honestly? No." She grinned. "But I can pretend to try."
Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. Her relentless good humor was... not entirely annoying. Which was more than I could say for most people.
The satellite phone on my desk chimed, drawing my attention. Only two people had that number, and one was my former commanding officer who never called unless it was an emergency.
"I need to take that," I said, crossing to the desk.
Pepper nodded, turning back to clean up the kitchen mess.
I picked up the phone, checking the ID. My brother. "Rudy."
"Hey, big brother. Just checking you haven't been buried alive in that hermit cave of yours. The blizzard's all over the news."
"I'm fine." I glanced at Pepper, who was very obviously pretending not to listen while washing dishes. "Actually, I need some information."
"From me? The journalist? This is unprecedented."
I lowered my voice. "What do you know about Mayor Wickett? Nolan Wickett."
Rudy's tone changed immediately. "Why are you asking about that snake?"
"Answer the question."
"Well, officially he's Evergreen Falls' golden boy. Chamber of Commerce darling. Unofficially? There are rumors. Nothing I can print yet, but I've been looking into some financial discrepancies around town development projects."
I watched Pepper, who had slowed her dish washing to a glacial pace. "What about the North Pole Village charity? The toy drive?"
A pause. "How do you know about that? I just started pulling those threads last week."
"Let's say I have a source."
"A source?" Rudy's voice rose in disbelief. "You, who hasn't spoken to another human being voluntarily in three years?"
"Are the rumors credible?" I pressed, ignoring his comment.
"Very. I've got documentation showing questionable transfers, but nothing definitive linking Wickett directly. He's careful." Rudy paused again. "Pax, what's going on? This isn't like you."
I debated how much to tell him, then decided on a partial truth. "Someone came to my cabin last night. Got caught in the storm. They had some interesting things to say our good ol’ mayor."
"Someone? Who?"
"Pepper Prescott. She runs the North Pole Village."