The Mountain Man’s Christmas Virgin (Grumpy Christmas Mountain Man #8)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Holly

The road disappears under a sheet of white, and my tires spin. Not good.

I ease off the gas and breathe through the skid. The wheel straightens. My heartbeat doesn’t. I grip the steering wheel tighter and squint at the ridge ahead, where one last delivery will go.

Cole Hart. Reclusive. Doesn’t come to town. Needs Christmas cookies more than anyone.

The weather advisory pinged my phone an hour ago: A winter storm warning, advising against unnecessary travel.

But this isn’t unnecessary. When I stopped by Wilde’s General Store, Eli paid for Cole’s cookies and said someone needed to check on the hermit. I said I could do it, and I don’t break promises.

Cole’s delivery is the farthest out and the hardest to reach, which is why he’s last on my list. I planned to get to him before it got dark and the weather turned, but with the snow falling, that’s looking iffy at best.

The wind shoves the car sideways. I correct again and hum the first verse of “Jingle Bells” because silence makes my nerves worse. Almost there.

My breath fogs the windshield faster than the defroster can keep up. I swipe at it with my mitten. I can see… enough.

The switchback tightens. My wheels catch gravel, sounding like grinding teeth, and my stomach flip-flops. Next comes ice, smooth as glass, and the steering wheel goes loose in my hands. For one heart-stopping second, I’m sliding sideways toward the edge where the road just… ends.

Then the tires bite into something, gravel or frozen dirt, and traction returns. My hands are slick inside my mittens, and I taste copper in my mouth from biting my cheek.

I should ease up on the steering wheel, but my fingers won’t let go. “Okay. Okay, we’re fine.”

I am not fine.

But I’m not turning around when I’m this close. Mrs. Porter at the library told me Cole Hart lives at the end of this spur, past the ridge loop, where the pines grow so thick the snow can’t find the ground. She said it gently, the way people do when they think you won’t listen.

I didn’t.

Because even after living in Lush Hollow for three months, I’m still one of the new girls. Make that the newest still-single woman. Nora and Paige somehow found love in this small town on this very mountain.

Me?

Not even a date or someone asking for my number.

It doesn’t surprise me. I’m that person, the one everyone sees as just a friend. I’m the perfect sidekick because I smile too much and bring cookies nobody asked for. I’m the one people are polite to but don’t quite see yet. And the yet falls on the hopeful side.

Maybe Cole Hart is like me in some way. Why else would he stick to his cabin so much? That’s why this delivery matters. I want him to know that someone—well, me—sees him.

A structure finally appears through the falling snow. That has to be his cabin, right? It’s made of dark wood with a metal roof. Smoke curls from a chimney.

Relief floods through me, and I blow out a breath. I made it.

I park close to the porch, grab the cookie tin from the passenger seat, and open the door. Wind slaps my face, and ice crystals sting my skin. I tuck my chin and push forward, boots in snow that’s above my shins. But I haven’t failed in my delivery attempt. That has to count for something.

Two steps up to the porch, and I knock.

Nothing.

I try again, knocking harder, but my mittens muffle the sound.

The door swings open, and I forget how to breathe.

He’s huge. Broad shoulders fill the doorframe, and flannel stretches over a chest that looks like it could stop a truck. Close-cropped dark hair, a trimmed beard dusted with gray, and eyes the color of a winter sky. A faint scar cuts over his brow. His mouth is a flat line.

My knees feel soft, like overcooked pasta. I lock them and lift my chin.

“Um. Hi.” My voice comes out too bright and cheerful. “I’m Holly Brooks. From the Cookies for Shut-Ins program. I have your Christmas delivery. That is if you’re Cole Hart.”

I hold up the tin, hoping I’m at the right place.

His gaze drops from it to me, then to the road, which is disappearing under the falling snow.

“You need to leave.” His voice is low, flat. Final.

The floor seems to shift beneath me. “I… what?”

“Storm’s moving in fast. The road will close in twenty minutes, if you’re lucky.”

“Oh.” I blink snow off my lashes. “Well, I’m here now, so—”

“Turn around.”

The words land like a door slamming in my face. My ribs tighten. I’ve experienced the you’re nice but not necessary treatment. The we’ll call you that never comes.

I swallow and force brightness back into my tone. “I drove all the way up here. The least you can do is take the cookies.”

His gaze narrows. “You drove in this?”

“The advisory said to avoid unnecessary travel. This felt necessary.”

“It’s not.”

Despite the cold biting my cheeks, heat floods my face. “Look, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I made a commitment to finish this route. So if you could…”

As I hold out the tin, a gust slams into my back. I stumble forward. His hand shoots out, catches my elbow, and steadies me. His grip is firm and warm even through my coat sleeve.

He mutters a curse, then releases me and steps back. “Inside. Now.”

“I don’t need—”

“Your car’s not making it back down.”

I twist to look behind me. Horizontal sheets of snow erase the trees, the driveway, and the way home.

The words stick in my mouth. “It wasn’t this bad two minutes ago.”

“Ridge weather.” He moves aside, gesturing curtly. “In or freeze. Choose.”

I step over the threshold because freezing isn’t on my list of acceptable outcomes today.

The cabin smells of wood smoke and coffee.

A fire crackles in a cast-iron stove at the center of the room, and the heat radiates in waves that make my frozen skin prickle.

The furniture is sparse: a worn leather chair with a reading lamp beside it, a couch covered with a slipcover, a low table scarred with ring marks, and shelves lined with labeled bins in neat block letters.

The walls are chinked logs, golden in the firelight, and the wide plank floors show the wear of boot scuffs and furniture scrapes that tell stories I’ll never know.

There are no Christmas lights or even a wreath. Forget about a tree.

Just... functional.

But also lived in. Like someone exists here, even if they don’t welcome the world inside.

He shuts the door, cutting off the wind. The pop of burning wood and my pulse are the only sounds. What have I gotten myself into?

He holds out his hand. “Keys.”

“What?”

“Your car keys. I need to check the engine.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” His jaw tightens. “Because if your battery’s frozen, you’re stuck. And if you’re stuck, that’s my problem.”

Oh. Right.

I shift the cookie tin to my other hand and drop the keys into his palm, careful not to touch his skin, even though my hand is covered. His fingers close around my smiley face keychain in one smooth motion.

“Stay by the fire,” he orders. “Don’t touch anything.” He nods at my phone. “No photos. No posts. No exceptions.”

He’s moving before I can respond. The door opens and closes in one efficient motion, pulling cold air across the room.

I stand there, dripping melting snow on his floor and clutching the cookie tin.

The fire crackles. I move closer and peel off my wet mittens, then unwind my scarf. My coat is soaked at the shoulders. I should take it off, but I don’t know the rules here. He said not to touch anything.

Does that include hooks by the door? I have no clue, so I’d best not do anything.

Somewhere outside, the generator hums, low and steady, beneath the wind’s wail. I hug the cookie tin to my chest and scan the room again.

No photos. No clutter. Everything has a place and a label, such as Batteries. First Aid. Matches. Everything except me.

Nothing new, except…

My throat tightens, and I shove the feeling down. This is fine. He’ll fix the car, I’ll thank him by handing over the cookies, and I’ll leave. Simple.

Except my hands are shaking, and it’s no longer from the cold.

The door bangs open. Snow swirls in with him. As he locks the deadbolt into place, he shakes off the snow dusting him. Guess he doesn’t care about water on the floor.

“Your battery terminals are corroded. The alternator belt’s cracked. The coolant’s dangerously low. You’re not driving tonight. Hell, you shouldn’t have made it up here at all.”

My stomach drops. “What? But it was running fine—”

“Until it wasn’t. You got lucky. Another mile and the engine would’ve seized.” His jaw tightens. “Who’s been maintaining this thing?”

“I… the guy at the quick lube place said it was fine last month.”

“He lied or he’s incompetent. Either way, you’re not going anywhere until I fix it.”

The floor tilts. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“But I can’t stay here.”

His gaze meets mine. Flat. No apology. “You don’t have a choice.”

My breath snags in my chest. “There has to be another option.”

“There isn’t.” He moves past me, as if already problem-solving, and his boots leave more wet prints on the wood floor. “I’ll radio the sheriff in the morning. The road crew won’t plow until the storm clears. That’s tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

“Tomorrow?” The word cracks.

“Yeah.” He pulls a wool blanket from a chest and tosses it onto the chair. The motion is matter of fact and competent. “I’ll get you dry clothes.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re soaked.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Change or your core temp will drop. That’s not happening on my watch.”

I sink onto the worn leather chair. My eyes sting.

This is not how today was supposed to go.

The plan was simple: finish the route, prove I’m reliable, and maybe earn an invitation to the volunteer appreciation dinner next week.

Emphasis on maybe, but I really want to be invited.

Instead, I’m stranded with a man who looks at me the way people look at a package delivered to the wrong address.

The sting sharpens behind my eyes. I blink hard.

No. Not here. Not now.

I set the tin carefully on the table. As I press my palms against my thighs, I stare at the ceiling. Anything to keep the tears at bay. Cole Hart doesn’t seem the type to appreciate crying.

He returns with an armful of clothes: a thermal shirt, sweatpants, and thick socks. He sets them on the arm of the chair without meeting my eyes. “They’re mine. They’ll be big, but they’re warm.”

“Thank you.”

“Change in the bedroom. I’ll make coffee.”

“Okay.”

He walks to the kitchen alcove, and I hear the clatter of mugs and the hiss of water heating.

I stare at the clothes. They’re folded with the edges lined up.

I should be grateful.

I am grateful.

But I also feel like the kid who showed up to the party nobody wanted to throw.

I grab the clothes and head toward the hallway. The bedroom door is made of solid wood with a simple lock. I slip inside and close it behind me.

A dark quilt covers the bed. A lamp sits on a three-drawer dresser. A glass of water waits on the nightstand, condensation beading on the sides. Outside, the window shows nothing but white.

I peel off my wet layers, and my skin prickles.

The thermal shirt is soft but too big with sleeves that fall past my fingertips.

It smells like cedar and laundry soap. I pull on the sweatpants, which are also too big, even though no one would ever call me thin (I prefer the term curvy), and roll the waistband twice.

The socks are thick wool and instantly warm.

Okay, this is better.

I catch my reflection in the window. My hair is a damp mess, my cheeks are pink, and my eyes are too bright. I look like someone who tried too hard and failed anyway.

Spoiler alert: I always look like this.

I smooth my hair and take a breath. This is fine. It’s one night. I can do one night without being a burden. I head out.

He stands by the stove, holding two mugs. He glances at me, nods once, and hands me a cup. “Coffee. Black.”

“Thank you.” I take it, and the heat soaks into my palms. Steam curls up, smelling rich and strong.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, backlit by the fire, looking like he’s calculating the fastest way to restore order to his disrupted evening.

This is my fault. “I’m sorry. For barging in. For not leaving when you told me to.”

A muscle jumps in his cheek. “You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

He sips his coffee. “Knowing the weather up here takes time. You’re new.” It’s not a question.

“Three months.” I wrap both hands around the mug. “I work at the business association office. I’m also coordinating Lush Hollow’s holiday volunteer stuff. Cookies, caroling, and gift baskets. That kind of thing.”

He says nothing.

“I know it’s silly.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “But people seem to like it. And helping makes me useful, so…” I cut myself off, and my face heats. “I’m rambling.”

He watches me with an unreadable expression.

Then he sets down his mug and moves to the woodstove, adding a log with the ease that comes from repetition. Flames lick around the fresh wood.

“Bedroom’s yours.” His back is still to me. “Sheets are clean. Door locks. I’ll be out here.”

“You don’t have to give up your room—”

“I’m not.” He faces me. “That’s the guest room. I sleep in the loft.”

Oh.

He gestures toward a wooden ladder with each rung worn smooth in the corner. How did I miss that?

“I’ll check the generator before I turn in. If the power flickers, don’t panic,” he says. “Backup kicks in fast.”

“Okay.” But as I say the word, that’s the last thing I feel.

“You need water, aspirin, anything… ask. Don’t go rummaging.”

“I won’t.”

His intense gaze leaves no room for argument. “I have rules. Stay inside. Don’t go near the generator shed. Don’t try to fix your car. If you need something, you ask. Clear?”

I nod.

“Say it.”

My pulse skips. “Clear.”

“Good.”

Maybe for him. The wind howls, and the cabin shudders. The flames in the stove dip, and shadows leap wild across the walls, stretching and shrinking.

He looks at me with a steady, unyielding gaze. My stomach flutters in a way I’m not expecting.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he says.

As I nod again, the words settle into my chest, heavy and certain and strangely safe.

I’m stuck. Here. With him, a man who looks at me like I’m a complication he’ll manage, not dismiss.

And I don’t know if this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me or the first interesting thing in a long time. Maybe ever.