Page 100 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Yeah,” Lou says with an almost wistful expression. “She would.” And then he takes out his wallet, slaps down some cash on the table, grabs his things, and leaves in his ketchup-smeared shirt.

I slide out of the booth, clutching the bag that holds my pony. It’s time for me to go too.

“What are you doing?” Rowan asks, looking at me with wide eyes when he sees me take a step away from the booth. I’m suddenly aware that everyone is staring at us. Everyone.

Part of me recognizes that this is what Rowan doesn’t want—to be watched, to be studied, to be interpreted by people who don’t know him. And I can understand that. Even so, I’m crushed by the knowledge that he won’t do it for me when it’s the only way we can be together without any pretense.

“I’m going to help Ivy,” I say. “And then I’m going back to Labelle Manor.”

“It’s okay,” Ivy says. “That jackwad was right. I do technically work here, and Ididtechnically create this mess. I’ll clean it up.” But she gives Rowan a censuring look that suggests he should clean up his own messes.

Too bad I’m starting to think there’s no cleaning this one up.

“I’m going to take you back to the house,” he says. “Of course I’m going to take you.”

But then his phone rings. His brow furrows, his whole body going to attention, and he pulls it out. “Shit. Fuck,” he says after checking the number.

“I hope you don’t say that whenIcall,” Ivy quips.

He looks up at us. “It’s the firehouse. I’m on call.”

Ivy,who’s been borrowing her dad’s car while she’s in town, gives me a ride back to Labelle Manor. Apparently, Cole, the owner of brewery, was happy to give her a break, possibly because the tray of food she spilled all over the ground wasn’t her first mishap for the night. I hope she’s better at writing than she is at serving.

Before he left us, Rowan looked me in the eye, his expression pleading, and said, “We’re not done talking about this.” Except it feels like wearedone. He still doesn’t want to be on the show, and I don’t know where that leaves us. I’m also worried, in spite of myself, about the fire. I know the majority of his calls aren’t even about fires—most are from people who’ve locked themselves out, or can’t get their cat or dog or child down from a tree, or have started a kitchen fire. But I still hate thinking of him walking into a blaze with little protection besides his suit. He’s such a big man, seemingly unbreakable, but we’re all breakable in the end.

“So, men are stupid at least ninety percent of the time,” Ivy says after a stretch of silence. Her mouth twists. “Maybe more like ninety-five. They need a lot of help realizing what they actually think and feel. Like it would be great if each of them had a pocket therapist, you know?”

“Are we talking about your brother?” I ask, feeling a smile surface.

“Yes,” she says. “He’s possibly the most stubborn man alive, but don’t let that put you off. Because he’s also loyal…and sweet…and very, very talented. You should see those little cars he makes. I’m not even into cars, but I can tell they’re special. He’s just…he’s a quiet guy, and he thinks he wants a quiet life.”

“I think he reallydoeswant that,” I say thoughtfully, hugging my pony through the bag. “And being with me would really mess things up for him.”

“So what?” Ivy says flippantly. “So, things will be a little louder than he’d like for a while. People will pay him more attention than he cares to receive. So what? They’ll stop caring. People always stop caring after a while. They’ll move on to someone else, and he can go back to being a hermit crab.”

“I don’t think he sees things that way,” I tell her.

“That’s okay, Kennedy, because he has several pocket therapists. We’re called sisters, and we’re gonna screw his head on straight for you. We’ll try to get him down to being stupid only ninety percent of the time.”

I laugh, but there are still tears behind my eyes, because I don’t really believe it. I don’t believe anyone could convince him to be on the show—and even if he did, I think he’d regret it.

I don’t think I’m enough.

“Tell me more about the book you’re writing,” I say. I just…I can’t talk about Rowan right now. I can’t think about him.

She gives me a quick sidelong look as she steers the car, then tells me that she doesn’t know what’s going to happen yet because she’s a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of girl, and she knows as much about what will happen in it right now as I do.

Talking to her, I think of Rowan and the maybe-fire.

“You don’t think it’s a real fire, do you?” I ask worriedly.

She reaches over and taps my hand. “If it is, he’ll help put it out. It’s emotions he struggles with. He’s never had any trouble being brave.”

She probably meant for that to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

When we get closer to Labelle Manor, I hear sirens behind us, and I glance at her in surprise. Her eyes leave the road for a fraction of a second to meet mine.

“You don’t think—” I start.

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