Snowbound Christmas Wish

Chapter Two – The Man With Two Names

For a second Emma thought she had imagined the knock.

Her heart was still trying to remember its normal rhythm, her body warm and heavy against Liam’s, the storm outside loud enough to swallow any sound. Then the knock came again, sharp and impatient.

“Mr Hartmann. We need to talk. It is about the land deal. You cannot keep putting this off.”

Emma went rigid.

Hartmann.

Her head was on his chest. She felt the way his muscles tensed under her cheek, the way his hand stilled on her shoulder. The quiet curse he breathed into her hair told her this was very real.

He was the first to move. Liam reached for the blanket and pulled it higher around her, then slid out from under it, all in one smooth motion that spoke of practice. Like this was not the first time someone had knocked on a door he did not want opened.

“Do not say anything,” he murmured. “Please.”

The please landed somewhere low in her stomach. Anger did not have time to form yet. Confusion filled every space.

He grabbed the nearest clothes he could reach, his discarded sweater and jeans, and pulled them on while the voice on the other side called his not name again.

“Mr Hartmann, I know you are in there. Your brother told me where to find you.”

Brother. Hartmann. Land deal.

It felt like someone had shaken the snow globe of her brain.

Liam raked a hand through his hair, took a breath that did not look steady at all, then opened the door a crack, just enough to show his face and one bare foot.

“Markus. It is very early for business.”

The man in the hallway did not sound amused. Emma could not see him, but she could hear the low tight anger in his voice.

“The council meeting is in two hours,” Markus said. “The mayor wants your answer before then. You have been dodging calls for days. The company keeps calling me, not you. I am not your secretary.”

“Good morning to you too,” Liam replied. His tone was light, but Emma could hear the strain under it. “I told you I would think about it.”

“You have had a year to think,” Markus snapped. “Last winter you promised to sign. Now people are saying you changed your mind. The investors are already moving equipment. If you pull out, everything falls apart. If you sign, half the forest disappears and the village changes forever. We cannot stand in the middle any longer.”

There was a muffled thud. Emma pictured him leaning one hand against the doorframe, tired and angry.

“Pick a side, Hartmann. Before someone else picks it for you.”

Silence stretched.

Emma’s breath caught. She stayed very still under the blanket. The room smelled like pine soap and their mixed skin, and now under all of it lay something metallic and sharp.

When Liam finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I will come down in a few minutes,” he said. “We can talk in the office.”

“I am done talking,” Markus replied. “Bring an answer.”

Footsteps moved away down the corridor.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment Liam simply stood there with his forehead against the wood, eyes closed, shoulders rigid.

Emma watched him from the bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin. The heat between them had evaporated as quickly as breath on glass.

Mr Hartmann.

He turned slowly, as if he had forgotten she was there, and then their eyes met and the shock on his face was almost funny if she had been in any mood to laugh.

Right. She thought. He did forget.

She reached for the shirt he had left her the night before and pulled it on under the blanket, moving carefully so it would not fall. She did not bother to hide the fact that she was staring.

“Liam,” she said. The name tasted strange now. “Who exactly knocked on our door asking for Mr Hartmann?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Snow still blew thick and sideways, tapping the glass with icy fingers.

“It is complicated,” he said at last.

She let out a short laugh that had no humor in it. “You think?”

He glanced back at her, guilt clear in the set of his mouth. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” she asked. “Before or after the land deal that apparently might destroy half the forest?”

He flinched as if she had slapped him.

“That is not what it sounds like,” he said.

“Really?” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like armor. Her bare feet were cold on the wooden floor. Her anger finally caught up with her confusion, rushing into the space like fire finds air.

“You told me this was a family place,” she said. “That you used to come here with someone who believed in Christmas wishes. You did not mention you are the man everyone is chasing because of some land deal that could change the village. You did not mention your name is Hartmann.”

“It is my last name,” he said quietly. “Liam is still my first one. I did not lie about that.”

She stared at him. “You just forgot to mention the part where the whole village has business with you.”

His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words he did not want to say.

“You were upset,” he muttered. “Broken engagement, running from Christmas, sharing a room by accident. I did not think ‘hello, I am Liam Hartmann, and everyone here hates my family’ was the best introduction.”

“So you decided to sleep with me instead,” she said. “That makes sense.”

He winced again. “That is not fair.”

“Is it not?” She took a step closer, the blanket trailing over the floor. “Last night you looked me in the eye and told me strangers do not know how I sound when I am trying not to cry. And you were right. You are not a stranger anymore. But apparently I still am to you.”

He met her gaze without looking away, and there was something raw in his eyes that twisted in her chest against her will.

“You are not a stranger,” he said. “That is the problem.”

Silence fell again. Emma realised how aware she still was of her body, of the soreness that reminded her how close they had been only an hour ago, of the way his sweater clung to his chest, hiding and emphasizing at the same time.

This would have been easier if she had not liked him. If their night had been just alcohol and loneliness. But it had not been just that, and they both knew it.

She pulled the blanket tighter. “Tell me about the land deal,” she said. “The short version.”

He hesitated. Then he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared at the floor while he spoke.

“My family owns most of the land around the village,” he said. “My grandfather bought it cheap after the war. Forest, slopes, part of the lake. For decades it was just paper. Then a few years ago a development company came knocking. Big resort, ski lifts, luxury cabins. Jobs, money, tourists. You know the pitch.”

Her journalist brain supplied the rest. Higher taxes, noise, outsiders, some people happy, some people furious.

“The village split in two,” he continued. “Half wanted the resort, half wanted the forest. My father wanted the money. So did my brother. I did not know what I wanted.”

“But you signed anyway,” she guessed.

His mouth twisted. “I signed a preliminary agreement last Christmas. Here. In the mayor’s office. The woman I told you about thought it was a good idea at first. She said the village needed new life. Then she saw the blueprints. The resort would cut through the trail we used to hike every winter. Right through the old part of the woods.”

He paused. His knuckles had gone white.

“She died six months later,” he said softly. “Car accident. After the funeral I looked at the contract again and realised I could still pull out before the final signing. So I stalled. The company kept pushing. The village council kept pushing. Everyone kept pushing. I kept drinking.”

He let out a humorless breath.

“So here we are. If I sign this week, I get money I do not even need and the forest loses half its trees. If I walk away, the company sues, my family loses a lot, the council calls me a traitor and the village loses the promised jobs. No option looks like a win. I came here to decide before the deadline.”

Emma sank onto her own bed. The blanket slipped off one shoulder but she did not bother to fix it.

“You were going to decide alone, in a room above the inn,” she said.

He looked up at her. “It sounds stupid when you say it.”

“It is stupid,” she said. “It is also very you.”

His brow furrowed. “Very me?”

“Yes.” She gestured at him. “The man who brings secret whiskey to a snowstorm, takes home a stranger, then hides his real last name because he is trying not to wreck her already bad holiday. You are allergic to honest introductions and simple problems.”

He stared at her for a second, then a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“That is possibly the most accurate insult I have ever received,” he said.

“Happy to help.”

The tension in the room shifted a little. It was still there, thick and electric, but some of the sharp edges had dulled. Her anger was still simmering, but now it sat beside a strange, unwelcome feeling: understanding.

She knew something now about loss and choices that did not feel like choices. About how grief could turn every decision into a test.

He was watching her carefully. “You have every right to be mad,” he said. “If you want to leave after breakfast, I will ask the manager to find you another room or even another inn. You do not owe me anything. Not a second night, not a second conversation.”

The idea of packing up and going to some cold, anonymous guesthouse on the other side of the village while he stayed here under the same roof felt like pressing a bruise until it went numb.

She lifted her chin. “Maybe I stay because the room is already paid,” she said. “And because the storm is bad. Not for you.”

“Of course,” he said.

Their eyes held. Both of them knew she was lying, at least partly.

She pushed herself to her feet. “I need a shower,” she lied again, because the world before that knock felt distant and she needed a minute alone under hot water that had nothing to do with him.

“In that case, I should go face Markus,” he said. “And the council. And my very patient ability to mess up entire communities.”

She snorted despite herself.

He moved toward the door, then paused. He looked like he wanted to step closer, to touch her, but thought better of it.

“For what it is worth,” he said, hand on the knob, “last night was not a lie. Not for me.”

Her throat tightened. She said nothing.

He opened the door and left.

The silence he left behind was louder than the wind.

---

Breakfast smelled like coffee, cinnamon and awkward secrets.

The dining room on the ground floor was all warm wood and fogged windows. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, smaller than the one outside but decorated with the same careful love. Guests filled most of the tables, wrapped in sweaters and thick socks, cheeks pink from the cold.

Emma hovered in the doorway with her notebook in one hand and her phone in the other. She had dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Her body still remembered Liam’s touch in flashes that she tried very hard to ignore.

Helga, the owner, waved her over with a smile that was too sharp to be only kind.

“Good morning, Miss Keller. I hope the room was warm enough.”

Warm enough was one way to describe it.

“Yes, thank you,” Emma said, footing carefully on the line between polite and not lying.

Helga’s gaze slid past her, searching. “And Mr Hartmann?”

The name landed like a stone between them.

So everyone really did know.

“He had a meeting,” Emma said. “Council business, I think.”

Helga’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course. Sit, sit. Eat while the food is still hot. Today the snow will be heavy. Not a good day to go far from the inn.”

Emma took a plate and filled it with scrambled eggs and bread she did not feel like eating. She was halfway through forcing herself to drink coffee when the dining room door opened again.

Conversations dimmed.

Liam entered with snow in his hair and a look on his face that said the meeting had not been pleasant. A man in a wool coat followed a few steps behind him, tall and broad, jaw clenched tight. Markus, Emma guessed.

Every head in the room turned. Some people nodded. Some glared. Most pretended they were not watching while failing at it completely.

Liam nodded to a few familiar faces, offered a quick word to Helga at the counter, then spotted Emma at the corner table.

For a moment he hesitated.

Then he came over anyway.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice low enough that only she could hear.

She considered saying yes just to make a point. Then she remembered what he had said upstairs, that she did not owe him anything, not even a second conversation. She remembered, too, how empty the room had looked after he left.

She nudged the chair out with her foot.

“Sit,” she said. “Before the entire village sprains its neck staring at us.”

He sat. The space between them felt smaller than it was.

“How bad was it?” she asked, nodding subtly toward where Markus was now talking with Helga near the fireplace.

“That depends,” Liam said. “On what scale you use to measure bad. On the Hartmann Scale of Disaster we are at a comfortable eight.”

“Ten being what?”

“Ten being the forest on fire and the inn replaced by a casino.”

She winced. “People really think that will happen?”

“Some of them,” he said. “Some think I will save the day and refuse to sign. Some think I will save the village by bringing jobs. The truth is I can disappoint everyone with one stroke of a pen, no matter what I choose.”

He stabbed a piece of egg with his fork. He did not eat it.

Her fingers itched for her notebook. The reporter in her was buzzing. Land dispute, divided community, heir with guilt and no direction. It was the kind of story her editor would kill for.

Her phone vibrated on the table.

She flipped it over, expecting another holiday message from her mother.

It was an email from her editor instead.

Subject line: New angle for your Christmas piece.

She opened it while Liam watched her, curiosity in his eyes.

“Good news,” the email began. “We did some digging on your little mountain village. There is a rumored development war going on there, something about a big resort and a stubborn landowner. If you can get close to that story, we can bump your article from personal column to front page feature. See what you can find out about the Hartmann family and the local politics. Names, conflicts, real emotions. People love that stuff at Christmas. Merry working holiday.”

Emma stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Get close to the story. Names. Conflicts. Real emotions.

She did not have to get close. The story was sitting in front of her with snow in his hair and her fingerprints probably still on his skin.

“Bad news from home?” Liam asked carefully.

She locked her phone and set it face down on the table.

“Work,” she said. Her voice sounded too bright in her own ears. “They want me to write something bigger than I planned. Apparently this village is more interesting than it looks.”

His brow creased. “Interesting how?”

She opened her mouth to lie. The lie stuck.

She met his eyes instead.

“They heard about the land dispute,” she said. “They want details. Names. Hartmann details.”

His fork clinked against his plate.

Of all the ways their night could come back to bite her, she had not expected her editor to be the teeth.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. Around them the dining room hummed with the soft noise of plates and conversations, but it felt like someone had pressed mute on the world.

“So you are here to write about my mess,” he said at last.

“I was here to run away from my own,” she replied. “Now they want yours too.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes searching her face. “Are you going to do it?”

Her answer should have been simple. She was a freelance writer. Big features meant better pay, more visibility, a step toward the career she wanted. She needed that.

At the same time the memory of his voice the night before, rough and honest in the dark, slid into her thoughts. The way he had said she sounded when she tried not to cry. The way his hands had trembled just slightly when he talked about the woman who was no longer around.

If she wrote this story, he would not be just a subject. He would be the man she had already crossed a line with.

She picked up her mug to buy time. Her coffee had gone cold.

“I do not know yet,” she said. “But my editor will not like that answer.”

Liam’s jaw tightened. “Writers and developers have something in common,” he said quietly. “They both like neat, clear endings.”

She gave a short laugh. “And you do not believe in those.”

“Not anymore.”

His gaze dropped to her hand. He reached out very slowly, as if touching a wild animal that might bolt, and almost covered her fingers with his.

Almost.

His skin hovered a breath away. Her heart turned over.

“Whatever you choose,” he said, “I deserve it. I pulled you into this. I did not tell you who I am. I slept with you while hiding half my life. Reporters call that fair game.”

She swallowed. “I am not just a reporter.”

“I know,” he said. “That is why I am worried.”

He stood before she could respond.

“I should go,” he said quietly. “The mayor has another speech prepared about progress and destiny. I would hate to miss that.”

“Liam,” she started.

He shook his head, a small sad smile on his mouth.

“Enjoy the snow, Emma,” he said. “It is pure. The rest of us are not.”

He walked away, crossing the room under the weight of too many eyes.

Emma watched him leave, something heavy settling in her chest.

Her phone buzzed again. Another email from her editor.

This one was shorter.

“Just sent you some background on the Hartmann case. The landowner’s son is the key. Try to talk to him if you can. His name is Liam Hartmann.”

Emma stared at the name until the letters no longer looked like English.

Liam Hartmann.

The man who had held her last night. The man who had told her he did not believe in miracles. The man who was now walking out into the snow with the whole village balanced on his decision.

Her editor’s last line burned at the bottom of the screen.

“If you can get him to open up, we have our headline.”

Emma looked up through the fogged window.

Outside, Liam’s dark figure was already halfway across the square, snow swirling around him like he carried his own private storm.

For the first time since she had arrived, she understood what the village legend really meant.

Some hearts did not come here to heal.

Some came here to break all over again.

She set her mug down with a soft thud.

She had a choice to make.

Follow her story.

Or follow the man who was the story.

Either way, there would be no going back.