Page 27 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“It’s awful,” she says. “There’s a lot of expensive hors d’oeuvres and champagne, and every year, they put together these crazy favor bags, but there aren’t any presents under the tree, and there’s no warm cider or hot chocolate. The only Christmas carols they play are from the philharmonic orchestra.”

“Sounds like your suitors would fit right in,” I say. Even as I say it, I know I’m closing a door between us—putting some sort of ending to this moment that’s felt strangely right. But that’s a good thing, because I can’t afford to have thoughts about Kennedy, and I shouldn’t want her to have thoughts about me.

“Oh shit,” I hear Oliver exclaim, followed by a shriek. Kennedy and I exchange a quick look, and then I’m running through the Christmas trees, Kennedy racing after me. It doesn’t take me long to find them. Ralph’s isn’t huge, and I’m good at following noise. Sometimes, before my little sister Ivy went to live with Jay, I’d be left alone with her. I’d have to basically echolocate her by listening to her little grunts and happy squeals. She’d always be engaged in some self-destructive activity—trying to eat my grandmother’s bobby pins or pulling thorny roses out of a vase so she could pull the petals off.

By the time we reach them, the shouting has stopped. Actually, Oliver has Harry wrapped into a hug, and they’re both laughing. I feel a twinge of regret, like I’ve interrupted a moment that should have been allowed to play out. They pull apart as we near them.

“What happened?” Kennedy asks. Her sunglasses are still on her face, but her cap is askew from her run, that long pretty hair spilling out.

“I…” Harry starts. Swallows. “A squirrel…”

“When the tree came down, a squirrel jumped on his head from inside the branches,” Oliver says through a rumble of laughter. “We didn’t even notice it was in there before it happened.”

“What’d you do?” Kennedy asks.

“I ran!” Harry says, and Kennedy starts laughing. Harry joins her, and then Oliver, and then me, even though I’m not altogether sure why we’re laughing, other than I’m relieved it was only a squirrel that landed on him. If it had bitten him, his short, thinning blond hair wouldn’t conceal the mark, so I’m guessing he’s good on the rabies front.

“It stayed balanced until I brushed it off,” Oliver says at last, wiping his eyes. “I think it was in shock.”

“Thank you,” Harry says as he reaches out and touches Oliver’s arm. “Yousavedme.”

“I didn’t save you,” Oliver says with a grin. “It was just a squirrel. But if that’ll convince you to go out to dinner with me, let’s pretend I did.”

It’s starting to feel more like we’re intruding on their moment, so I say, “I’m going to bring my tree out to the truck. Will you help me, Princess?”

“Only if Harry doesn’t need me.”

Harry gives a nervous shuffle, like he still feels a phantom squirrel on his head, but stays put. “Candy cane,” he says to Kennedy.

She smiles at him, and he waves and then salutes. We take off, walking toward my fallen tree.

“Will I take one end, and you’ll take the other?” she asks, her eyes gleaming a bit behind those glasses, as if she’s excited about it.

“No,” I say with a snort. “More like I’ll take it all.”

“But you—” She gestures back toward the guys.

“They were having a moment,” I say with a shrug.

Her grin is more contagious than it has any right to be. “Youarematchmaking.”

“No, I’m not,” I say defensively, even though I kind of am, I guess. “I’m just letting them work shit out. That’s what a friend should do.”

“Yeah,” she says, bumping her shoulder into me playfully. “Thatiswhat a friend should do.”

And if there’s a pleasant hum from the place where her shoulder touched mine, it’s probably only because of the moment—the high of seeing Oliver happy, of having cut down the perfect tree, of being with—

“You’re going to let me help with at least part of it, right?” she asks as we reach the tree.

“How about you carry the ax and your drink?” I say, nodding to the little cup sitting by the tree. I shrug into my coat.

“It feels like you’re giving me a job that doesn’t matter,” she responds, pouting a little.

Shit. She’s cute when she pouts too.

“It matters,” I say. “Ralph is very particular about his axes.”

“And you?” she asks.

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