Unwrapping for the Mountain Man (Log Cabin Christmas #9)

Chapter 1 – Elizabeth

The GPS loses signal exactly when I need it most.

"Of course you do," I mutter, tapping the screen like that's ever worked. "Because why would anything be easy today?"

My voice sounds too loud inside the car, louder than the Christmas playlist I turned off twenty minutes ago when the snow started falling harder. Now there's just the rhythmic thump of windshield wipers losing their battle against the storm, and me, talking to myself like a crazy person.

Which, to be fair, I might be.

Who drives into the mountains alone on Christmas Eve? Who books a cabin in the middle of nowhere just to prove they can handle being by themselves?

Me, apparently. Elizabeth Winters, professional people-pleaser and newly unemployed marketing manager, on a quest to finally take up some damn space in her own life.

I glance at the camera on the passenger seat—my "Brave Christmas" project, documenting my first solo holiday. So far, I've taken exactly one photo: me at a gas station, holding up a terrible coffee with forced enthusiasm. Not exactly inspiring content, but hey, it's a start.

The road curves sharply, and I ease off the gas.

Snow falls so thick now I can barely see ten feet ahead.

The rental cabin should be close, at least according to the last moment my GPS was alive, but everything looks the same out here.

White sky, white ground, dark pines emerging from the storm like ghosts.

"You wanted an adventure," I remind myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. My knuckles are white against my brown wool coat. "You wanted to do something bold for once instead of shrinking yourself down to fit into—"

The car lurches sideways.

My stomach drops as the tires lose traction, and suddenly I'm not steering anymore… I'm just holding on while the world spins. White fills the windshield. The car fishtails, slides, and I'm weightless for one terrifying second before—

Crunch.

The impact jerks me forward against the seatbelt. Then everything goes still.

For a moment, I just sit there, breathing hard, heart hammering against my ribs. Snow piles against the driver's side window. The front end of the car is buried in what looks like a snowbank, the hood crumpled slightly against something solid I can't see.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, you're fine. You're fine."

I'm not fine.

I try the ignition. The engine makes a grinding noise that sounds expensive and then dies completely.

I try again. Nothing.

The temperature inside the car is already dropping. I can see my breath.

I grab my phone—no signal, obviously—and shove it in my coat pocket. When I push open the door, snow immediately invades, ice-cold and sharp against my face. The wind steals my breath.

I'm wearing boots. Cute ones, with a slight heel, because I thought I was just driving to a cabin, not hiking through a blizzard. They sink into snow up to my ankles as I wade around to the front of the car, and within seconds my toes are numb.

The car is wedged deep. Even if the engine worked, I'd never get it out alone.

"Shit." My voice cracks. "Shit, shit, shit."

I look around, squinting against the wind. Nothing but white and trees and darkness creeping in at the edges. The storm swallows every sound except my own ragged breathing.

This is fine. People get stuck in snow all the time. I'll just… walk. The cabin has to be close. I'll find it, or I'll flag down another car, or—

But there are no other cars. No one is driving through this storm except idiots like me who thought they could outrun their problems by hiding in the mountains for Christmas.

The cold is seeping through my coat now, and my hands are shaking as I pull them inside my sleeves. I should get back in the car. Wait it out. Except the car is dead, and I don't know how long I have before the cold becomes dangerous.

"You wanted to take up space," I say through chattering teeth. "Well, congratulations. You're about to take up a permanent space as a cautionary tale about women who die doing something stupid and independent."

I'm halfway through a slightly hysterical laugh when I see him.

A shape in the snow. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving toward me with the kind of steady confidence that says he knows exactly where he's going even though I can barely see three feet ahead.

My heart lurches, fear and relief tangled together.

He emerges from the white like something out of a winter legend. Dark coat dusted with snow, a knit hat pulled low, and beneath it, green eyes that find mine immediately.

His face is all hard angles softened by a short, dark beard, and there's a tool belt at his waist with what looks like a wood-carving hatchet hanging from it.

For one wild second, I think: This is how I die. Rescued by a serial killer.

Then he speaks.

"You okay?"

His voice is deep and rough and unexpectedly warm, like whiskey and woodsmoke, and something inside me unclenches just slightly.

"I'm—" My teeth are chattering too hard to answer. "I'm stuck."

"I can see that." He moves closer, and I realize he's even bigger up close. His eyes sweep over me, quick and assessing. "You hurt?"

"No. Just cold."

He's already shrugging out of his coat. Before I can protest, he drapes it over my shoulders, and the sudden warmth is so overwhelming I almost cry.

"Come on." His hand settles at the small of my back, gentle but firm, guiding me away from the car. "Cabin's not far."

I should probably ask questions. Who are you? Where are we going? Are you going to murder me?

But his hand is warm even through my coat, and I'm so cold I can't feel my fingers, and honestly, dying of hypothermia seems worse than taking a chance on a strange man who smells like Christmas.

So I let him lead me into the storm.

Then the cabin appears like a mirage.

One moment there's nothing but white, and the next, a small log structure emerges from the trees, glowing with warm light from the windows. Smoke curls from a stone chimney, and there are pine garlands strung along the porch railing, tied with red twine that flutters in the wind.

"You live here?" I ask, stumbling slightly on the porch steps. His hand tightens on my back, steadying me.

"For now." He pushes open the door, and heat rushes out to meet us. "Get inside before you freeze."

I don't need to be told twice.

The moment I step through the doorway, I'm hit with everything.

Warmth from a fireplace crackling in the corner.

The smell of cinnamon and orange peel and something wine-dark simmering on an old-fashioned stove.

Pine boughs draped across wooden beams. And in the corner, a small Christmas tree decorated with dozens of hand-carved ornaments that catch the firelight and glow like tiny stars.

"Oh," I breathe.

It's like stepping inside Christmas itself, the kind of Christmas I thought only existed in movies or other people's memories.

The mountain man closes the door behind us, shutting out the storm. In the firelight, I get my first real look at him. When he pulls off his hat, his dark hair is slightly mussed, and there's snow melting in his beard.

He's beautiful. Not in a polished way, but in a rough-hewn, lived-in way that makes my stomach flutter despite the fact that I'm still shivering.

"You should get out of those wet clothes." His voice is quieter inside, almost gentle. Then his eyes widen slightly. "I mean—I'll get you something dry. To change into. Not that you should—"

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, and I realize with a little thrill of surprise that he's flustered.

This confident man who rescued me from a storm is blushing.

"That would be great," I manage, and my voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. "Thank you."

He nods once, then disappears into what I assume is a bedroom, leaving me standing in the middle of the cabin dripping melted snow onto a worn braided rug.

I take the opportunity to look around. Everything in here seems to be handmade—the log furniture, the quilts draped over a well-worn couch, the wooden bowl on the table filled with pinecones.

The Christmas tree ornaments are all different: tiny carved animals, stars, log cabins, each one detailed and beautiful.

Someone made these. Someone with patient hands and an artist's eye.

He returns with a flannel shirt and a pair of thick socks. "Bathroom's through there. Take your time warming up."

Our fingers brush when I take the clothes, and the contact sends a shock of awareness up my arm. His eyes meet mine, and for one suspended moment, neither of us moves.

Then I'm fleeing to the bathroom like my life depends on it, clutching his flannel to my chest.

His shirt hangs to my mid-thigh and smells like him. I've stripped down to my bra and underwear beneath it, and even though I'm covered, I feel exposed. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.

I catch sight of myself in the small mirror above the sink. My dark hair is damp and tangled, my cheeks flushed from the cold. The flannel pulls across my curves—breasts, hips, the soft belly I spent years trying to hide.

When I come out, he's at the stove, stirring something in a pot. He glances over his shoulder, and his gaze travels down my body. His jaw tightens, and he looks away quickly, but not before I see the heat in his eyes.

My toes curl against the wooden floor.

"That's mulled wine," he says, voice slightly rough. "My grandmother's recipe. It'll warm you up."

"It smells amazing." I move closer, drawn by the warmth and the scent and him. "Everything in here smells amazing, actually. Like Christmas swallowed me whole."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "That's the goal."

He ladles wine into two mugs and hands me one. Our fingers brush again, and this time neither of us pulls away quite as fast.

"I'm Elizabeth," I say. "In case you were wondering about the identity of the woman currently wearing your clothes."

"Jason." He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his mug. "In case you were wondering about the identity of the man whose clothes you're wearing."

I laugh and some of the tension in my shoulders releases. "Thank you. For rescuing me. I'd probably be a popsicle right now if you hadn't shown up."

"Probably." But his eyes are soft when he says it. "What were you doing out there alone?"

The question should feel invasive, but it doesn't.

Maybe it's the wine warming my blood, or the firelight making everything feel dreamlike, or the way he's looking at me like my answer actually matters.

"Taking up space," I say quietly.

He waits, patient, and somehow that patience pulls the rest of the words out of me.

"I've spent my whole life making myself smaller.

Quieter. Easier. And I'm tired of it." I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. "So I booked a cabin and decided to spend Christmas alone for the first time.

To prove I could. To prove I deserve to take up space in my own life. "

Jason's gaze holds mine, steady and unwavering. "You don't have to prove that."

"Maybe not to you. But to me?" I take a shaky breath. "Yeah. I do."

For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he sets down his mug and moves to the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Come here. You're still shaking."

I am. I hadn't even noticed.

I sink onto the couch beside him, and he reaches for one of the quilts—a patchwork of blues and greens—and drapes it over both of us. The gesture is casual, but the effect is anything but.

Suddenly we're sharing warmth under the same blanket, our thighs almost touching, the fire crackling softly in the background.

"For what it's worth," Jason says, his voice low and serious, "I think you take up exactly the right amount of space."

My breath catches. I turn to look at him, and he's so close I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the way his gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.

"You should rest." He stands abruptly, and cold air rushes in where his warmth had been. "The storm won't clear until tomorrow. You're stuck here tonight."

Stuck. The word sends a flutter of something dangerous through my chest.

"I don't want to impose," I start, but he's already moving toward the bedroom.

"You're not." He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me. "Get some sleep, Elizabeth. We'll figure everything out in the morning."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the fire and the wine and the unsettling realization that I don't feel scared at all.

I feel safe. Seen.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel like maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I curl deeper into the quilt and let my eyes drift closed. The fire paints warm patterns against my eyelids. Somewhere in the cabin, I hear Jason moving around, the soft sounds of him existing in this space.

Sleep pulls at me, heavy and inevitable.

Just before I drift off, I feel something settle over me, another layer of warmth. The weight of fabric, the brush of fingertips against my cheek, so gentle I might be imagining it.