Page 35 of Celebrating the Season

Once inside, I shed my outer layers and headed for the kitchen, Boaz trailing behind me like an eager puppy. The cabin felt especially cozy after the frigid outdoors, the fire I’d built earlier still crackling in the hearth.

“Can I help?” Boaz asked, hovering near the counter as I pulled ingredients from the fridge.

“Sure, you can chop the bell peppers. Think you can handle a knife without losing a finger?”

“I’m not making any guarantees, but I’ll try.”

“Please do. The road hasn’t been cleared yet, so getting you to a hospital for stitches would be a challenge right now,” I said dryly.

As I prepped the rest of the vegetables, Boaz’s steady stream of chatter filled the kitchen. It was comforting, his animated voice a pleasant counterpoint to the sizzle of the wok and the steady rhythm of my knife on the cutting board.

“So there I was,” Boaz was saying, gesticulating wildly with the knife, “in the middle of this presentation at Comic-Con, and this pretentious dude comes up and starts critiquing my art, right? And I’m like, dude, it’s gay fan art of Captain America and Bucky. It’s not that deep.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds like LA, all right. Full of pretentious folks who think they’re better than everyone else.”

“Right? God, I love it and hate it at the same time. There’s so much creative energy, you know? But also so much bullshit.”

As I tossed the veggies into the wok, I asked, “What keeps you there, then? Seems like a tough place for an artist.”

Boaz’s expression turned thoughtful. “The opportunities, I guess. And, I dunno, the chaos of it all? It’s like, there’s always something happening, always a chance to meet someone new or stumble into something amazing.”

I nodded, stirring the vegetables. “I can see the appeal. Different from what brought me here, that’s for sure.”

“What made you choose Forestville? I mean, besides the obvious wood supply for your art.”

I paused, considering my words. “Needed a change, I suppose. After retiring from the Army and smokejumping, I wanted somewhere quieter. Somewhere I could hear myself think.”

Boaz’s eyes met mine, and I saw a flash of understanding. “Makes sense. Sometimes I wonder if I need that too, you know? A place to just…be.”

The vulnerability in his voice stirred something in me. I wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, but instead, I nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

After lunch—Boaz cleared a heaping bowl of veggies, declaring it the best stir-fry ever—we settled into the living room, the fire crackling in the background. Boaz curled up on one end of the couch, his iPad propped against his knees. I took my usual spot in the armchair, a half-carved wooden figure in my hands.

The quiet that fell between us was comfortable, punctuated only by the soft scratch of my carving tools and the occasional tap of Boaz’s stylus against the screen. Every small movement, every quiet hum or muttered word as he worked drew my attention. My eyes kept drifting to him, taking in the way his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he worked.

“What are you working on?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Boaz glanced up, his eyes bright. “Oh, it’s a commission for a romance author who writes dragon shifter books.”

“Wait, what?”

“Dragon shifters. Men who can shift into a dragon. It’s a thing in romance.”

“Apparently.”

“Anyway, she wanted character art for the ten male dragons in her series, so that’s what I’m working on. They all have a different color, but other than that, she gave me full creative freedom, so it’s a lot of fun.”

“You’ll have to show me when you’re done.”

Boaz grinned. “It’s ridiculous but also kind of awesome. What about you? What’s taking shape there?”

I looked at the wood in my hands, realizing I’d been carving on autopilot. “A squirrel.”

“Cool,” Boaz said, his attention already drifting back to his iPad. “Like me.”

As I returned to my carving, my thoughts wandered. There was something about Boaz that both excited and terrified me. The way he could light up a room with his energy, the depth I glimpsed behind his chatter. I wanted to know everything about him. What made him happy, what made him sad, what made him tick.

But with that desire came fear. It had been a long time since I’d let anyone get close. The life of a smokejumper didn’t lend itself to lasting relationships, and after retiring, I’d grown comfortable with my solitude. Now, faced with the possibility of something more, I felt woefully unprepared.

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