Page 4 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“You have two hands, don’t you? I’ll bet you know how to use them.”

I didn’t mean it likethat, but he looks slightly flustered, and I can’t deny that’s how it sounded. I open my mouth to apologize,realize there are certain situations not improved by words, and shut it again.

He heaves a sigh like I asked him to do something hugely objectionable, but comes closer, his scent engulfing me as he does. He smells like campfires and pine, just like the Christmas candle I used to light in my room when I was a kid. The memory makes me smile.

“What are you so happy about?” he asks as he circles around me. His presence seems to crowd me, but it’s not unpleasant.

“Thinking about Christmas,” I say. “I like Christmas much more than this house does.”

“You’re not mooning about your eight suitors?”

“Leave it to a matchmaking family to use the word suitor.” It’s a glib response, but I feel a surprising amount of anticipation. Soon, he’ll reach for the zipper, then it will slide up my back. He’ll probably do it quickly enough to catch skin, a man like this.

He snorts. “You’re the one on the show,Princess.”

I decide I don’t like that name just as his hand clasps around the zipper. It’s probably too small for him. I can feel the warmth and rasp of his fingers. I can tell from such a slight touch that they’re callused. The zipper slides up slowly, surprising me. It’s a sinuous movement, bottom to top. He surprises me further when he finishes by fixing the clasp at the top of the dress.

“There,” he says, circling around me, the warmth at my back going with him. “It’ll do.”

A laugh escapes me. “A true king with the compliments.”

He shakes his head slowly, his mouth tipping up on one side. “Nah, your prince is going to be in that ballroom. I’m just the court jester.”

He turns to walk away, and as he steps out the door, I realize I don’t actually know his name. Just that he’s a Mayberry.

“What’s your name, Jester?” I ask.

Swiveling back a little, he gives me another half-smile. “Rowan.”

“And I’m Kennedy.”

“No shi—” he starts before course-correcting. “Yeah, I know. Break a leg, Kennedy.” He makes a face. “Non-literally, of course.”

Then he’s gone.

CHAPTER TWO

KENNEDY

“You’re orange,” Bachelor Number Seven bellows. He staggers back into the champagne fountain and is immediately soaked. Priceless crystal glasses tumble to the floor.

This is adisaster.

For one, there’s something screwy going on with the heating system in the house. The grand ballroom has a beautiful polished parquet floor and floor-to-ceiling windows with mountain views and gorgeous maroon velvet curtains, which I strongly suspect were purchased by the producers. In every corner, there’s an elaborate trellis stretching from floor to ceiling, woven through with plants that are either real or really good knockoffs. It would be even more pleasant if it weren’t freezing, probably no more than fifty degrees. Even though the dress I’m wearing is long-sleeved, the fabric is thin lace. The guys, all dressed in suits or tuxes, got lucky…and not one of them has offered me a jacket. I’ve kept away from the champagne fountain because the last thing I want right now is something that’s going to make me colder.

Rowan Mayberry has been in and out of the room for the last hour, presumably trying to fix the problem, but it only seems to get worse.

The other issue is that the bachelors are all terrible.

Well, maybe that’s not fair. Rowan was right about Bachelor Number Six—Marcus is as much of a Prince Charming as I’m liable to get. He’s a hedge fund manager with golden hair, blue eyes, and a personality that might be less impressive if it weren’t ranked against the seven other frogs Nana Mayberry chose for me.

They were brought in one by one through a double doorway in the side of the ballroom, introduced by Harry, who carried a scroll as if we’re in some sort of Regency movie. It would have been fun, actually, if any of them other than Marcus appeared tohavea sense of fun. Okay, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I admit I haven’t spoken to them enough to know for sure—each one had a memorized speech, most of them revolving around money and how they got theirs. I’d listen to a minute or so of monologuing, greet the guy, and then he’d take a seat on one of the thrones set up across from mine. It didn’t help that one of the men kept flubbing his speech. We had to repeat his entrance five times, with Nana Mayberry telling me to look more pleased until it felt like my face hurt from all the fake smiling. I wish I could say it was the first time it’s happened, but I’ve spent my life being told to smile.

And, yes, I said there were thrones. Mine is even on a mirrored pedestal. In the middle of the thrones is the champagne fountain, which had an elaborate stack of crystal champagne flutes next to it. Yes, I saidhad.

After the cameras got footage of us all sitting around smiling at each other for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only about twenty minutes, Harry announced it was time for the champagne cocktail party to begin. I’d talked to most of the men, or rather they’d talkedatme, making sure the cameras were capturing them (one of the men even told the cameraman to walk around to get his good side). Then, as Bachelor NumberTwo—Deacon—finished telling me about his family’s vacation home and started to walk away,

Bachelor Number Seven, Jonah Highbury the Fifth, walked over and flipped my veil with a laugh, asking what I was hiding. Which was when he backed into the champagne fountain and broke all the glasses.

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