Page 18 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Cupid?” she asks, with too much enthusiasm for my taste.

“Cupid,” he confirms with a twinkle in his eye, the jackass. “It’s been his nickname since we were kids. You know, because the rest of the Mayberrys are such dyed-in-the-wool romantics.”

“I don’t like it when people call me that,” I growl.

“We shouldn’t call him that then,” Harry says, surprising me with his instant support. “I hate it when people call me Twitch, but my cousin George does it at every family gathering. Of course, it only makes me more anxious, and then I actually do—” His eyes go wide, and he looks at me and blurts, “You said there’d be caroling. I’m always up for some good caroling.”

“Do you sing?” Oliver asks as we all start to walk toward the log cabin.

“In the shower,” Harry says, then stammers. “I mean. I only sing in the shower because I don’t want anyone to have to listen to me.”

“Harry has abeautifulvoice,” Kennedy says.

“You hang out outside his bathroom?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows.

“Wouldn’t that mean I was outsideyourbathroom?” she asks.

She said it as a challenge, definitely not some kind of invitation, but my mind flashes to taking a shower withher. What she would look like in the shower, with the hot water coursing down her slick body, her beautiful long, dark hair loose, her—

I trip on some gravel, and suddenly I’m face down in the parking lot, gravel scraping my nose and forehead. Fuck. It hurts, and worse, I’m incredibly aware of Kennedy having watched the whole thing.

“Shit, are you okay, Rowan?” Oliver asks, reaching down for me.

I stand up without accepting his hand and brush off the gravel, annoyed at myself. “I’m fine.”

But Harry’s not the only one who’s red now.

Kennedy takes a step toward me, her hand reaching up to my cheek. Her fingers brush my skin so lightly, it should barely be felt, but Idofeel it. “You’re bleeding,” she says in a low voice.

“I’m fine,” I say, “nothing worse than I’d get shaving.”

“You have a beard,” she says, her lips tipping into a slight smile.

I can’t help smiling back, because her smile is like the sun, warming the things it touches. “I hate shaving.”

Then, because Oliver is giving me ayou’re being really fucking rudefrown, I add, “Thank you.”

We resume our trek toward the cabin, none of us speaking again, because my faceplant only made things more uncomfortable.

Ralph himself, a big man with red cheeks that suggest he’s been enjoying plenty of his spiked cider, opens the door. He’s dressed up like Santa Claus, probably wearing the same coat and beard he used when I was a kid.

“Ho, ho, ho, welcome to Ralph’s,” he says, waving us in.

“Hey, Ralph,” Oliver says.

“Don’t destroy the illusion for the newcomers,” he says, winking at Kennedy.

“Yes, Ralph.” I roll my eyes. “This thirty-year-old woman thinks you’re Santa Claus.”

I can feel her eyes on me again as she says, “Hey, I’m only twenty-nine. And I hope I’ll never be too old for Christmas magic.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ralph says, his delight over-effusive.

The interior has a dusty fake Christmas tree with dozens of empty wrapped boxes underneath, an ax station, and a drink bar in the corner that’s brightly decorated with Christmas lights and a sign reading “Ho-ho-ho-hot chocolate.” Like everything else, it’s seen better years, and that’s why I like it. It’s nice to have some things stay the same when the world keeps changing around you, pulling away the things you thought you knew.

“Do you want anything?” I ask Kennedy.

“I can order my own drink,” she says stiffly.

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