Noel with the Mountain Man (Log Cabin Christmas #7)

Chapter 1

Noel

The cabin looks like a snow globe someone brought to life.

I stand in the driveway—if you can call two tire tracks through three inches of powder a driveway—and stare at the A-frame tucked into the pines.

Smoke curls from the chimney. Icicles hang from the eaves like crystal fringe.

The whole scene is so aggressively charming I half expect a cardinal to land on my shoulder and burst into song.

It’s absolutely perfect.

This is exactly what I need. No texts from Trevor asking if we can "talk things through." No pitying looks from my friends. No reminders that I'm spending Christmas alone for the first time in four years.

Just me, a stack of paperbacks, and enough hot chocolate to drown my feelings.

I grab my duffel from the trunk and crunch through the snow to the front door. The key's supposed to be under the mat—very original, rental company—and I find it exactly where promised. The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And I freeze.

Because there's a man standing in front of the fireplace.

A huge man. Flannel shirt stretched across shoulders that could probably support a roof beam. Dark hair, dark beard, and an expression that suggests I've just interrupted something very important. Like brooding. Or communing with the wilderness.

His suitcase sits by the couch.

My brain catches up approximately three seconds too late.

"Um," I say brilliantly. "Hi?"

He turns fully to face me, and good God. Those eyes—gray, stormy, deeply annoyed—lock onto mine.

"Who are you?" he practically growls.

"I'm Noel." I wave the key in the air. “I rented this cabin for the night.”

For the past four years, I spent Christmas Eve with Trevor and his family. This year, with nowhere to be and no one waiting, I couldn’t stand the thought of staring at my apartment walls while everyone else posted matching-pajama photos on Instagram.

His jaw tightens. "No. I rented this cabin for the week."

I blink. "That's… not possible."

"Clearly it is." He crosses his arms, and I try very hard not to notice how the movement makes his biceps strain against the flannel. "I checked in two hours ago."

"Well, I booked three weeks ago." I step inside and shut the door behind me, mostly because cold air is rushing in and partly because I'm not about to let Mountain Man Incarnate intimidate me out of my own vacation. "So unless you have a time machine, I was here first. Technically."

"Technically," he repeats, with the kind of dry sarcasm that suggests he thinks I'm an idiot, "possession is nine-tenths of the law."

“Show me your confirmation email."

He pulls out his phone. I pull out mine.

We compare screens in tense silence.

Same cabin. Same dates. Different confirmation numbers.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter.

"Agreed." He pockets his phone. "I'll call the rental office."

"Good luck. It's Christmas Eve. They're probably closed."

His expression darkens further, which I didn't think was possible. He calls anyway. I watch him wait, then swear under his breath when it goes to voicemail.

"Closed until the twenty-seventh," he says flatly.

Of course they are.

I glance around the cabin—at the roaring fire, the plush couch, the lofted bedroom visible up a set of rustic stairs. It's gorgeous. It's everything I hoped for.

And apparently, I'm sharing it with Paul Bunyan's grumpier cousin.

"Look," I say, trying for reasonable. "I'm sure this is just a booking mix-up. But I drove four hours to get here, and I'm not leaving."

"Neither am I."

We stare at each other. The fire crackles. Outside, the wind picks up, and snow starts falling harder against the windows—thick, swirling flakes that blur the tree line.

I sigh. "So, what, we just… coexist?"

"Apparently."

"Great. Fantastic. Best Christmas ever." I drop my duffel by the door. "I call the bedroom."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm a guest—"

"So am I."

"I'm a lady. You’re—" I gesture vaguely at all of him. "—that. A big, tough guy. You'll be fine on the couch."

His eyes narrow. "You're bossy."

"You're grumpy." I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Kyler."

"Kyler," I repeat. "Okay. Here's the deal, Kyler. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours. We'll pretend this is a very weird Airbnb with a really committed method actor playing 'rugged mountain hermit.'"

He rolls his eyes. “Or you can do us both a favor and leave.”

The wind howls. The cabin shudders slightly. I glance toward the window and watch the snow come down in sheets.

Kyler follows my gaze. His jaw tightens again.

"Storm's getting worse," he says quietly.

I pull up the weather app on my phone. The screen loads, and my stomach sinks.

Blizzard warning. Road closures in effect.

I look up at him. He's already watching me, and for the first time, I see something other than irritation in his eyes.

Resignation. Maybe a little bit of dread.

"We're stuck," I say.

"Yeah." He exhales through his nose. "We are."