The Grinch and His Curvy Christmas Miracle (Mountain Man Christmas Romance #16)

Chapter 1

Nikki

Christmas Eve looks like a glitter bomb exploded on my car. Honestly, it feels personal.

Snow hits the windshield in glittering clumps while the wipers squeal across the glass like they are filing a complaint. The heater wheezes. My little hatchback groans up the mountain road like it wants to quit and roll back to civilization.

I lean closer to the windshield, because apparently that is my survival plan today.

“Congratulations, Nikki,” I mutter. “You are officially the leading lady in a very questionable holiday special.”

The kind where the heartbroken heroine escapes to the woods, finds a cabin, and probably meets either a soulmate or a serial killer. My luck is fifty-fifty at this point.

My suitcase rides shotgun, puffed up so much the zipper is giving me attitude. A roll of ribbon sticks out of the side. One of my fuzzy socks is caught in the teeth. My cookie tin rattles in the footwell every time I hit a bump.

Everything smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

It smelled amazing this morning too, when I still thought today had a chance.

I woke up early, bright and hopeful like a sucker. Holiday pajamas. Hair a mess. Music playing while I rolled gingerbread dough and pretended I lived in one of those cozy videos influencers post for fun.

Flour on the counter. Flour on my cheek. Cookie cutters scattered everywhere. Presents for my parents lined neatly by the door. Shiny paper. Tiny silver stars. The whole scene looked like joy.

I really believed we would have a moment. Maybe decorate the tree. Maybe drink cocoa. Maybe try to act like a family.

I did not need magic. I just wanted bare minimum connection.

Instead I got Instagram.

I wince at the memory and the windshield fogs with my breath. Snow thickens outside. Trees look sugared and perfect. I can't enjoy any of it.

I still see that first story whenever I blink.

Mom’s profile picture at the top of the feed. I tapped it without thinking, expecting a cheesy photo of their living room or one of her artfully staged cocoa mugs.

Nope.

She was at the airport. Hair perfect. Brand new tropical print luggage. A cocktail already in her hand. She smiled into the camera like she was auditioning for a vacation commercial.

“Can you believe we pulled this off last minute?” she said, full of excitement. “Christmas on the beach.”

Dad laughed somewhere behind her. Plane announcements echoed overhead. People rushed past with neck pillows.

I stared at the timestamp.

Posted three minutes ago.

My stomach dropped. I checked my phone. No call. No text. Nothing.

Maybe it was old. Maybe she posted a memory.

Then she posted another clip. The gate number behind her showed today’s date. A flight to somewhere warm. Somewhere far from me.

Because I am apparently on easy mode for emotional damage, I called.

She answered on the second ring, airy and distracted. “Sweetheart, can this wait” she said, like I had called to ask about the weather and not the fact that she was fleeing the state.

“Are you at the airport?” I asked. I heard how thin my voice sounded.

“Did we not tell you?” she laughed, light and careless. “We found this incredible last minute deal. All inclusive. Your father needed a break so badly.”

“You did not tell me,” I said. “At all. And we were supposed to spend Christmas together.”

“We meant to,” she said. “Everything happened fast. Besides, you have your own life. You will be fine. You always are.”

Behind her an announcement called her to board. Dad shouted her name. Someone bumped into her and she made that annoyed little noise she saves for when life inconveniences her.

“Listen, we have to run,” she said. “We will call you when we land. Merry Christmas.”

The call ended before I could breathe.

That was my holiday invitation. A casual almost apology and a dial tone. My kitchen still smelled like their favorite cookies.

The oven timer went off just then. Loud and shrill like even the appliances were mocking me. I took the tray out, set it down, and stood there while tears blurred everything.

For a second I thought about crying on the floor. Really committing to the mood. Instead I wiped my face, grabbed my phone, and said out loud, “Absolutely not. We are not doing this today.”

If they did not want me for Christmas, fine. I would want myself.

So I opened my laptop and searched cabins within driving distance. The decent ones were booked. The fancy ones were priced like I needed to sell a kidney. I kept clicking through listings even though my hope was on life support.

Then I saw it.

A small cabin under a blanket of snow. A porch with a wooden railing. A green front door that looked like something straight out of a winter romance film. Warm golden light glowed from the windows in the photos, soft and inviting.

And the location.

Lovestone Ridge.

A small mountain town in Blissmont County.

It hit me right in the chest. It sounded like a place where things actually worked out. Where people stayed. Where holidays were warm instead of lonely.

The price made me blink. It was way lower than everything else, but it was Christmas Eve. Last minute. Most people probably booked weeks ago. Maybe this one slipped through the cracks, waiting for someone like me to click it.

Hope whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was the universe throwing me a bone.

I booked it in under two minutes.

Now the car huffs up another steep climb while the GPS announces my turn in the calmest voice possible.

"Thanks for the heads up, Linda," I mutter at the robotic voice. "Very helpful in this blizzard of doom."

Snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into a glittering white maze. Huge evergreens crowd the narrow road. Their branches droop under the weight, brushing the sides of my car like they are judging my life choices.

"Almost there," I breathe. "You have this. Pretend you are not terrified."

I pass a wooden sign half buried in snow. I crack the window and instantly regret the arctic slap to my face. The carved letters are simple.

Lovestone Ridge.

The tiny mountain town I pinned my last shred of hope on.

A tiny thrill runs through me. I am close. Maybe half an hour out. Close enough that hope starts waking up in my chest like it has not learned its lesson yet.

The road keeps winding through endless trees. Snow gets heavier, turning the world into a quiet white tunnel. My little hatchback fights every incline and grumbles like it wants to file a complaint with management.

I follow the curves as the forest thickens. My tires crunch through fresh powder and the sky looks ready to unload even more.

By the time the GPS tells me to turn onto a smaller lane, my shoulders are stiff from gripping the wheel. The path narrows, dipping and rising in a way that makes my stomach wobble.

Snow wraps around the car like a curtain. I shut off the radio so I can hear the engine and try to pretend I am not mildly panicking.

Focus.

Another few minutes crawl by before the GPS chirps in that way too cheerful voice. "You have arrived."

I slow to a crawl.

There is a cabin up ahead, but it is not exactly what I expected.

The pictures online looked cute. Cozy. There were fairy lights on the railing. A wreath on the door. A little bench with plaid cushions.

This cabin is larger. Darker. The logs are thick and rough. The porch is deep and shaded. The green door is there, yes, and the woodpile to the left, just like in the listing.

But there are no lights.

No wreath.

No cute little bench.

No sign of anything festive at all.

I pull into the cleared space next to the cabin and kill the engine. The sudden silence rings in my ears. Snowflakes hit the windshield and melt in tiny rivulets. The sky is a solid gray sheet.

My heart beats too fast.

"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Maybe they just did not turn on the lights yet. Maybe they are inside with cocoa and a blanket, and you are about to have an adorable meet cute with a sweet retired couple who rent cabins to city girls who get abandoned on Christmas."

That image is so comforting I almost believe it. But my gut knows better.

I tug my hood up, grab my suitcase handle, and scoop the cookie tin into my arms. My boots sink into the snow when I step out. The cold slaps me instantly, stealing my breath.

By the time I drag my suitcase up the short path, my nose is numb. The wheels keep sticking. The cookie tin is heavy in my arms. Snow sneaks into the gap at my neck and chills my spine.

I climb the steps onto the porch. The boards creak. The cabin looms over me, solid and quiet, like it has been here forever and does not particularly care about my existence.

My breath clouds the air as I shift my grip on my things and raise my hand to knock.

The door swings open before my knuckles even touch it.

I jolt back with a startled yelp and the cookie tin slips right out of my hands. It hits the porch with a loud clang that echoes through the storm. I dive for it on instinct, scooping it up so fast I almost face plant into the snow.

My fingers wrap around the cold metal just in time and I mutter a frantic, “Sorry. Sorry. You are fine. You survived,” which is probably not something a mentally stable person says to cookies.

I straighten slowly.

And that is when I see him.

A man fills the doorway.

And I mean fills.

He is taller than he has any right to be. Bare chest on full display. Broad shoulders. Muscles carved like someone sculpted him out of stubborn pine and bad decisions. His skin is warm toned and firm, the kind that should be illegal this far into the mountains.

A few snowflakes settle into his dark hair like they are choosing him on purpose.

Heat floods straight through my body. Warm. Melting.

Terrible timing.

If he is the serial killer half of my fifty fifty prediction, I am absolutely doomed because apparently my fight or flight response has chosen to flirt.

One big hand grips an axe.

My brain bluescreens again.

Cabin in the woods. Shirtless stranger. Axe.

Excellent choices, Nikki. Truly stellar survival instincts.

I clutch the tin like a shield and stare.

He frowns. It’s unfair how good it looks on him.

His eyes are a piercing icy blue. Not gentle. Not soft. Sharp enough to slice right through my excuses.

Stubble shadows his jaw. He looks like he has not smiled since the early two thousands and he is not planning to start now. Definitely older. Late thirties. Absolutely the kind of man my mother would warn me about while secretly staring.

"What the hell," he says.

The words rumble out of his chest and skim across my skin like low heat. My stomach flips. My neck warms. My body betrays me in every possible way.

I blink at him. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Then I manage a squeaky, “Um. Hi. Merry Christmas. I believe this is my rental for the holidays.”

His brows lift just enough to show he is questioning my entire existence.

His gaze drags down my body, slow and annoyed, taking in my oversized coat, my jeans, the cookie tin I am still clutching like emotional armor, the suitcase with the fuzzy sock still caught in the zipper teeth .

His eyes hit my curves and he looks away fast, jaw tightening like he did not mean to look.

"There is no rental here," he says. "Road is closed to strangers."

That voice hits me again.

Deep. Rough. Cold. Hot.

Every contradiction rolled into one man who clearly wishes I had never knocked.

"There is definitely a rental," I insist, hugging the tin tighter.

"I booked it this morning. Online. Snowy little cabin in Lovestone Ridge.

Green door. Woodpile on the left. A suspiciously low price but I am pretending that part is normal because it is Christmas and I am very emotionally unstable. "

His jaw locks. His hand flexes around the axe handle. The veins in his forearm shift under his skin and my brain short circuits all over again.

Focus, Nikki.

"You got scammed," he says.

Blunt. Immediate. No sugar. No apology.

The words hit like a punch.

My throat tightens.

"Of course I did," I say with a brittle laugh. "Why settle for one humiliation during the holidays when I can collect the whole set."

His eyes narrow a fraction. I do not think he is used to people who joke while dying inside.

He looks at the road behind me, draws in a slow breath, and grunts. A deep, resigned sound that feels like it physically hurts him to say what comes next.

“Get inside,” he mutters. “You can't leave now. The storm is too heavy. Road is already gone.”

Relief hits me like a punch. My knees wobble.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He shakes his head like this is the single worst decision he has made in years, then turns and walks into the cabin.

I clutch my tin, drag my suitcase over the threshold, and cannot help noticing three things at once.

One, his back muscles move in ways that should require a warning label.

Two, he still has not bothered with a shirt which is an intimate choice for someone who just threatened me with the truth.

Three, I am following a shirtless axe man into a secluded cabin during a blizzard.

"Great survival instincts, Nikki," I mutter under my breath as I drag my suitcase in after him. "This is how horror movies start."

Warmth wraps around me the moment I step inside. My body sighs in relief. I set the tin on the nearest table before I drop it again.

The door shuts behind me with a firm, final sound.

And now I am alone in a cabin with the grumpiest man I have ever seen.