Page 23 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“You’re scared of spiders?” I ask Rowan.

“Deathly,” he says.

Taking him in, his sweating brow, his short beard, and those intense eyes, it’s hard to imagine he’s afraid of anything.

“We should stick together,” Oliver says. “Make sure we’re safe from Santa.”

Rowan shakes his head ruefully. “I already chose my tree. You’re still looking. Maybe Harry should help you, and Kennedy can help me.”

“I don’t know much about cutting down trees,” I admit.

“And here I thought you liked to watch,” he says, lifting his brows. There’s an undercurrent rumbling under his words, or maybe I’m the one who put it there, noticing that sweat and his scent.

I take a hearty sip of the spiked cider, and it’s delicious. It’s also nothing like the drinks served at my parents’ famous Christmas Eve party—a stiff, joyless affair that’s only “famous” for its cold elegance. The trees no one in the family is allowed to decorate. The hors d’oeuvres made by a famous chef. The cookies made to look pretty rather than to be eaten.

I feel a swell of relief that I’m here and not there. Which is maybe why I start nodding. “Okay, let’s do it.”

The way Rowan immediately glances at Oliver tells me he’s up to something. It strikes me that he seems very eager to get Oliver and Harry alone together.

Wait a minute…

I steal a glance at Harry, who looks panicked but not necessarily displeased, and decide this isn’t one of those occasions on which he’d like a kick. So I follow Rowan into the trees.

“You left a tree half-chopped?” I ask.

“I know. It’s probably a safety hazard,” he says, wiping his brow. “But I heard you screaming at the top of your lungs. I figured you’d had an accident.”

“Or maybe an ax-ccident,” I say with a small smile.

We both laugh at the expense of our friend, which probably isn’t very nice, although there’s plenty of fondness behind it.

“I guess I’m afraid of spiders too,” I tell him. “Or at least spiders crawling out of Santa Claus’s mouth.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to meet the person who wouldn’t find that frightening,” Rowan says, stopping in front of a glorious pine, taller than him. His ax is resting against the trunk, business side down.

“How’d you choose it?” I ask.

“I looked to the heavens and asked for guidance, and a ray of light led me to this tree.”

“Really?”

He gives me a wry look. “No. It’s a good tree. My stepfather, Jay, taught me what to look for.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, the first thing to look for is one that’s no more than six inches in diameter. You don’t want to be out here all day, do you?”

Actually, I’m not so sure I don’t. It’s better than being cooped up in that house, surrounded by men who are vying for my attention.

Men I don’t feel much inclined to give my attention.

“So that’s the only factor?”

“It has to look good too,” he says, giving me a smirk.

I glance away as he takes up the ax, but I can’t keep up mydon’t look at Rowan Mayberryefforts for long. My gaze takes him in as his muscles bunch beneath his shirt and he deals another blow to the trunk. He must have set aside his coat before coming to me, because his arms are only covered by a red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt, his hands in those gloves.

“Are you playing matchmaker with Oliver and Harry?” I ask in a burst.

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