Page 31 of Home for Christmas in July

“Before we go to Santa’s Cellar, there’s another spot we should check first. It has a perfect view of the swans.” He grins up at me and a shock of hair falls over his eyes. He pushes it away with the back of his hand and the skin around his eyes crinkles in the sunlight.

“Really?”

“You know the waterfall?”

“Sure.”

“Back behind it, there’s a rock outcropping with a big, flat rock. Lots of people use it as a picnic spot.”

I search my memory. “I remember. I mean, I haven’t been up there in years and years. But when I was a girl, I used to play up there.” Then I frown. “It doesn’t have a view of the lake, though.”

“Probably not back then,” he agrees. “But before they opened the wine bar, the owners had to clear some trees to get their equipment in. They took down a copse of invasive buckthorn trees. After the work was done, they planted blueberry bushes. So now there’s a perfect view of just a slice of the lake. I know for a fact that you can see the swans from there.”

Any worry I had that today would be awkward slips away as the thrill of the hunt overtakes me. We head back inside, and I help Nick prepare breakfast—not that he needs my help. It’s clear that, over the quarter century of running the inn, he’s developed culinary skills that far outpace mine. I’ve been known to call a spoonful of peanut butter scooped from thejar a perfectly reasonable breakfast. So, this savory homemade deliciousness leaves me swooning.

We make quick work of cleaning the kitchen, and he fills two stainless steel canteens with water while I dig around in his daughters’ shared closet for a pair of hiking boots that fit. We’re out the door before the day heats up.

The hike up to the waterfall is rocky, but the rise is gradual. A third of the way up, I feel eyes on my back and freeze. Nick’s a half-step ahead of me.

“Nick,” I whisper-hiss his name. “There’s someone in the bushes.”

He turns slowly and scans the vegetation. Then a smile breaks across his mouth, and he gestures for me to step up to join him. When I do, he points to the left. “Look.”

A white-tailed doe peers out at us from the leaves, her wide eyes unblinking. Two fawns stand behind her like a pair of statues.

“Oh,” I breathe.

The mama deer watches us with caution as we continue on our way up the hill. Around the bend, the rush of water over rocks announces that we’ve nearly reached the waterfall. We move on, winding past and above the white falls until we come to the outcropping.

He turns back to me. “You go first. I’ll spot you.”

I’m a decent hiker, but I have a mild fear of heights. I wonder if he remembers.

A moment later, he removes all doubt. “Just in case you get dizzy like you did when we were on the terrace at the top of the Arc de Triomphe.”

Yeah, he remembers. Although in fairness, my vertigo allthose years in Paris was probably due in equal parts to the surveying the city from a height of fifty meters and my heightened emotion at the realization that when the weekend was over, so was our whirlwind romance. I remember staring out at the lights and being overcome with sadness.

Now, I shake my head, dislodging the memory, and muster up a smile. “It’s not that high, but thanks.”

As I sidle by, my arm brushes against his. A frisson of electricity jolts through me at the contact. I hurry past him, take a deep breath, and gain a foothold in the rocks.

We scrabble up the rock face without any drama—except for the internal drama caused by the fact that I’m acutely aware of Nick two feet behind me with a perfect view of my butt. I take a moment to silently thank Griselda for her obsession with lunges and squats in her Booty Boot Camp. I may have cursed her at the time, but I’m grateful now. And not just because it makes the hike easier.

I reach the top of the outcropping and hoist myself up onto the flat rock in an inelegant, but effective, floppy fish motion. I settle myself on the surface, shrug out of the light daypack Nick lent me, and reach for my water bottle while he pulls himself up beside me. I pretend not to notice his lat muscles straining against the back of his thin tee-shirt as he boosts himself onto the rock in an explosion of power.

“Show off,” I pant, sucking down water.

He snickers. “I owe it all to Grizzy’s Lumber-Jacked program. Well, that and chopping wood for the inn. Functional fitness for the win.” He twists off his canteen’s cap and guzzles a long swig of water. Then he gestures to the vista of the valley below. “As promised, there’s the lake.”

I nod. Far below, Snow Lake shimmers in the sun. Several white swans glide gracefully over the water’s surface. Then I scan the mountaintop. “This could be the spot. But where would someone hide a note here?”

He twists his mouth to the side and narrows his eyes as he surveys our surroundings, too. “It has to be somewhere protected from the elements.”

“And where someone won’t stumble across it accidentally.”

“Hmm.” He stands and makes a slow turn.

Disappointment threatens to crowd out my triumph at reaching the summit. Did we make this climb for no reason? I hold out my hand, and he pulls me to my feet. I stand beside him and take a careful look around.

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