Page 15 of Yuletide Acres

Chapter 3

Poppy

It’s only been two days since my late-night run in with Dylan, but I can’t stop thinking about him. He looks so different from the 27-year-old I fell for a decade earlier. That man was an adventurer, embracing his nomadic ideals. He looked the part, too—long hair, piercings and skinny as a rail.

D, I mean Dylan, of today is all man, and I mean all man. He’s gained about thirty pounds but judging from the way his shirt stretches over his chest, it’s in all the right places. The long hair is gone, his face chiseled with a bit of crinkling around the eyes. Then there’s that neatly trimmed beard, showcasing his gorgeous smile. Not that he’s ever grinning in my direction.

This version seems torn between kissing me and loathing me, if the other night is anything to go on. I wish he had kissed me. The memory of his lips centimeters from mine, his breath hot in my ear, has kept my body fired up on every level.

“I hate beards. That was my comeback. That’s all I had to work with,” I mutter aloud to the array of boxes surrounding me. “I’ll need the strength of all you crystals, to keep me from jumping him the next time I see him.”

“Good morning, Poppy.”

I whirl around, smiling at the blonde woman in the middle of my store. Let’s hope she didn’t hear me talking to myself. All I need is the residents of Yuletide Acres thinking I’m crazy as a loon on top of everything else. “Hi. Susan, right?”

“Good memory. I’m sure you’ve been inundated with all sorts of welcomes from the local townspeople.”

“For the most part. It’s been quiet the last day or so.” Am I digging? Yes. This woman is a direct link to Dylan. I feel like a schoolgirl, waiting with bated breath for the boy I like to visit. That’s how Dylan makes me feel. But once again, he’s MIA, which seems so odd after our intimate encounter the other night. “What can I do for you?”

She holds out an envelope, offering a rueful smile. “I’m not sure what sort of history you two have, but Dylan has denied your request for the Yule celebration.”

My heart sinks at her words. “Did he say why?”

Susan shrugs. “I don’t know, dear. He’s been ornery as a badger these last few days. When your request came across his desk, he insisted I walk the denial down here personally. It’s a pity. I was really looking forward to the Yule celebration.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t bothered to fight my clinic opening.” When Susan winces, I know what’s next to come out of her mouth. “He is fighting it, isn’t he?”

“Everything is written out in the letter. You’ll have to appear in front of the town council to plead your case.”

I rip open the envelope, scanning the contents. “I should just pack up and leave. It’s obvious I’m not welcome here.”

Susan places a hand on my arm, giving it a squeeze. “You have allies here, dear. We’ll be at the town council meeting.”

I grab my coat off the hook, throwing it on with a huff. “Well, I’m going to have a little chat with Mr. West. If he wants to run me off, he can at least have the decency to tell me to my face.”

“He’s not in a good mood today. You might want to wait until later.”

I shrug, my anger overriding any common sense. “Like you said, he’s been in a foul mood since I arrived. It’s not changing anytime soon.”

* * *

Ibeat Susan back to Town Hall, so there’s no one to stop me from barging into the mayor’s office.

Dylan is on the phone when I throw open the door. I’m wearing my sternest expression, my hands planted on my hips, but I know I’m hardly formidable. At least until I open my mouth. Then heaven help the man.

He hangs up the phone, his jaw twitching. “It’s customary to knock.”

I toss the paper on his desk. “It’s also customary to welcome new residents to the town, not run them off. Two nights ago, you damn near kiss me and now you’re denying my permits? What is your issue with me?”

“Can you keep your voice down?”

“No!”

Dylan shuts his office door, thumbing the latch to locked. “I don’t know what your kind expect when you move to places like Yuletide Acres, but we have a reputation as an enclave founded on family values and small-town Americana.”

“My kind? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m opening a clinic to help people! How is healing anti-American?”

He strolls back to his desk with measured steps, pulling open a drawer and sliding an envelope across the table. “But you’re not a healer, are you, Ms. Mills? One of the church leaders enlightened me about your past in Eugene.”

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