Mountain Man Grinch (Log Cabin Christmas 2025 #16)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

DAVIN

Idon’t do Christmas.

I don’t do lights. I don’t do carols. No mistletoe, no tinsel, no fire-hazard tree dropping needles across my floor. No socks, no Santa, and definitely no Elf on the Shelf.

It’s a rule set that makes the season ache. Maybe it’s the name—Grimshaw—or the Army that taught me to never give up, never back down, never celebrate. Either way, I learned the hard way that holidays are a kind of loneliness disguised as cheer.

Pine smoke threads the air. Frost etches the windows.

Clouds touch the ground thick like soup, and the world is white on white at six thousand feet.

The trees sag under snow that could swallow a truck.

When the fog lifts, everything will glitter so hard you’ll go blind. Today? The colors are on strike.

My phone buzzes.

MCGREGOR: Incoming

ME: Copy

MCGREGOR: Thanks, Man

ME: Family first. She’s safe with me. Focus on your honeymoon

MCGREGOR: Roger that

Bang—bang—bang. I jump to my feet. At the door, she’s a soaked, shivering little storm: mouth full of lipstick, hair the color of berries, and a purse with a rat the size of a traffic cone. Arielle McGregor. Curvy, furious, and very much not dressed for the backcountry.

“Inside,” I say. She slides past me, muttering thanks, and the dog starts to bark like it’s got a vendetta against the couch. I shut the door and pretend I didn’t just want to kiss her, sealing the cold outside and the chaos inside.

“What happened to rendezvousing in town upon arrival?” I scowl.

“Plans changed … suddenly.”

The purse rat yaps again, high-pitched enough to chip ice.

“What the hell is that thing?” I growl.

She clutches the tiny beast like it’s a newborn. “That’s Gus.”

“Gus?” I stare. “That’s a man’s name. For a dog that fits in a glove compartment.”

Her chin lifts. “He has a big personality.”

“Sure,” I mutter, “so does rabies.”

She gasps. I can practically hear the clutching of pearls, except she’s too modern for pearls—just wet jeans, a pink coat, and righteous fury.

“Look,” I say, jerking a thumb toward the hearth. “You’re soaked. Dry off before you turn into an icicle.”

She plops onto my couch, dripping all over it. Snowmelt pools on the rug. My left eye twitches.

“For God’s sake, could you maybe melt by the fire next time?”

She blinks up at me, innocent as sin. “Sorry. Do you hand out towels, or should I just sit here and evaporate?”

The sass. Fuck.

I grab a towel, toss it at her, and get another for the floor. She catches hers—barely—and gives me a look that says I’ve failed every hospitality test since nineteen forty-two.

“You always this charming?” she asks.

“Only when I have company.”

Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Lucky me.”

I should walk away. Instead, I watch the towel slide down her curves, the wet denim clinging to her thighs, the blush climbing her cheeks.

And that smell—plum and vanilla and trouble.

Focus, Grimshaw.

“Anyone follow you here?” I ask, switching back to business.

“Don’t think so,” she says. “Lost them in the fog. Nearly lost myself, too.”

“Yeah, pogonip’ll do that.”

She tilts her head. “Pogo-what?”

“Pogonip. Freezing fog. Gets into your lungs. Kills people sometimes.”

“Oh, you mean the snow fog?”

I nod.

She blinks. “Festive.”

I grunt. “Told you. I don’t do festive.”

Gus sneezes. She coos. I die a little inside.

“No pets,” I warn.

Her eyes go wide. “Outside? In this cold? You trying to get us both arrested for animal cruelty?”

“I’m trying to keep my cabin from smelling like dog perfume.”

“You mean life?” she snaps. “You probably Febreze the woods.”

“Only the corpses.”

She startles, then laughs—a bright, ridiculous sound that shouldn’t exist in my cabin. For a second, I almost forget she’s a McGregor and therefore classified under “professional hazard.”

She wipes at her eyes, breathless. “You’re not half as scary as you think you are.”

“That so?”

“Uh-huh. You’re just ... grumpy. Like, chronic condition grumpy. You should look into medication. Or caroling.”

“Caroling?” I echo, horrified.

She shrugs, curls damp against her coat. “It’s therapeutic.”

“Lady, I’ve been shot at, bombed, and stranded behind enemy lines. None of that compares to forced singing in public.”

Her lips twitch. “You hate Christmas, too, huh?”

“Guilty.”

“Figures.” She looks around, taking in the spartan furniture, the bare mantle, the complete absence of anything red or green. “This place looks like the Grinch had a panic attack at REI.”

I chuckle under my breath. Can’t help myself. She’s funny as hell, and the last thing I need right now. But a favor’s a favor, and Army Rangers are loyal to their comrades through thick and thin. Still, McGregor’s gonna owe me—big time.

I point down the hall. “Guest room’s that way. Boots by the door. No pets, no lip, and absolutely no Christmas.”

She smiles like a cherub planning arson. “So ... you’ll be expecting a tree, then.”

“Woman—”

“Kidding,” she says, holding up her hands. “Mostly.” She digs in her purse, produces a ridiculous Hello Kitty keychain, and drops it into my palm. “Car’s down the hill. Thanks for schlepping my stuff, Mr. Grinch.”

Before I can object, she kicks off her boots and socks and curls up on my couch like she owns it—cross-legged, barefoot, and utterly infuriating.

“Might wanna hurry,” she adds, gazing at the window. “Another storm’s coming.”

Of course there is. Because fate’s got jokes.

“Just FYI, Mateo says all McGregors have two things in common—Mexican fire and Scottish stubbornness. Apparently, I inherited both in dangerous quantities.”

Of course, she did.

McGregor. Hell of a name in these parts. Wolfe mentioned a cartel sniffing around again last month. If they’re poking at Mateo’s family? Bad timing for her to be up here alone.

I shove my arms into my coat, muttering curses about McGregor, women, and the cruel sense of humor of the universe.

And as I step out into the cold, one thought keeps circling like a vulture.

I’m going to strangle Mateo McGregor … if I don’t fall for his cousin first.