Page 54 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

I’m annoyed, but it’s much more pleasant to ride alone through the towering pines—and if that doesn’t say it all about my feelings, or lack thereof, toward Jonah and Marcus, I’m not sure what does.

When I arrive at the valley, cameramen are crouched on either end of a long white-and-red-checkered picnic blanket, filming Jonah and Marcus, who’ve apparently been making themselves at home. While Marcus is sipping from a crystal flute, Jonah has piled a plate high with what looks like caviar. It’s not what I was expecting from a picnic, but I’ve learned Nana Mayberry has very pointed opinions about what we should eat, drink, and wear to pull off the premise of the show.

As soon as I ride up, both of the guys set down their things and hurry toward me. The cameras follow their movement.

“I’ll help you down,” Marcus says.

“I got here first,” Jonah tells him, sulky, trying to edge him out of the way. Marcus is bigger and doesn’t budge. I dismount on the other side of them because I’m sick to death of their never-ending game of one-upmanship.

“Oh,” Jonah says sadly, as I walk my horse over to one of the production assistants.

“Would you like some champagne?” Marcus asks, trailing me. He’s as handsome as ever, even in the ridiculous costume, but I feel another surge of annoyance. Couldn’t he have just trotted along with me and let Jonah posture?

Still, I nod as I hand over the mare’s reins. “Sure, that would be nice.” There’s a scuffle of quickly moving feet behind me, and the production assistant and I share an amused glance before I gather myself and turn back around.

As I approach the blanket, I watch Jonah heap caviar messily onto a plate as if it’s a casserole while Marcus pours me champagne from a bottle in a bucket of ice.

When I reach them, they both practically shove their offerings at me, like whoever gets there first will be given a prize.

“Thanks,” I say, even though I don’t really feel like champagne, and the pile of caviar, without any crackers or silverware to eat it, doesn’t seem all that appealing.

I take a seat. For a second, they both stand there scowling at each other, but then they sit too, one on either side of me. I take a long sip of the champagne to settle my nerves, because I suddenly feel hemmed in.

“Did Marcus bring you a gift while you were sick?” Jonah asks.

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “All of the gentlemen did.”

“Whose was your favorite?”

“Jeff’s,” I say quickly, and if it’s a mark of bad character that I’m pleased to have disappointed both of them, then guilty as charged. “He gave me a Christmas book.”

“Ah,” says Jonah, his voice slightly contemptuous. “You’re one of those Belle women.”

“Bell women?” I ask in confusion.

“Yeah, one of those chicks who’d sleep with a beast just to get at a good library. You know,Beauty and the Beast.” He gives me a significant look. “There’s a very large library in Highbury Manor. We even have one of those swinging ladders.”

This is the first thing I’ve found to like about him, although it would be poor form to say so. Odds are, it’s not even his library. “Really, do you have a photo?”

Jonah goes to reach for his phone before remembering. He lifts his hands. “I don’t have my phone.”

“I have three hundred leather-bound books,” Marcus interjects.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that, so I just nod and say, “That’s nice.”

“I’ll bet you bought them in bulk,” Jonah says.

The wounded look on Marcus’s face, plus the ease with which he recalled the exact number, suggest that’s true. “I’ll bet you haven’t read a single book in that library,” he snaps back. “You probably only went in there to fuck around with the swinging ladder.”

Also probably true.

I drink more champagne.

There are a few moments of awkward silence and snacking, and then Harry and Nana come over. The cameras follow them, so it’s obvious they’re not coming over just to chat. There’s a plan.

“We thought you three might enjoy playing some ice-breaker games,” Harry says with unearned enthusiasm.

“Like Truth or Dare,” Nana Mayberry says, the words so frosty they almost burn.

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