Page 97 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

One man spat at us,and a woman I vaguely remember from high school claimed that I’d never called her back after we hooked up, an accusation that made my ears turn red. But there’ve also been a lot of smiles, a lot of joy, and so much of it has been from Kennedy that I feel drunk on it.

“We’re running behind schedule,” I say. “But this is what’s next.” We’re just outside the bookstore, and Kennedy lights up when she sees the name on the awning—Read Me—which I’ve always thought was stupid until right this moment. “I’m going to buy you some new holiday romance books so you don’t have to keep reading the same one over and over again.”

She immediately lifts up onto her toes and kisses me. My heart swells in my chest because tonight was supposed to be all about her, but somehow, it’s become about us. She pulls away but takes my hand. We walk in together, and I help her choose several books, laughing my ass off at the descriptions but getting kind of into the whole thing since it becomes a game to see if I can choose something that holds her interest.

When we leave the bookstore, she shoots me a sidelong glance.

“What?”

“What’s next?”

I laugh and put my arm around her. “We’re about to go to the worst place on Earth. Brace yourself.”

Seven minutes later, we walk into Christmas All Year Coffee.

Her gasp is so adorable I can barely take it, even though I feel an equal measure of horror. This place has always struck me as anightmare tourist trap—somewhere I’d rather not go, thank you very much—but tonight there’s something magical about it. It’s as if I’m seeing it through Kennedy’s eyes.

The Christmas tree is all decked out, there’s Bing Crosby playing over the speakers, and the whole place smells like coffee and chocolate, with a hint of spice and liqueur. The tables are packed with people eating desserts and drinking coffee or hot chocolate or hot alcoholic beverages, but the small square two-top closest to the tree is empty.

“That’s for us?” Kennedy asks with awe as I head toward it. “Who’d you have to kill?”

“Friend of a friend.”

“You killed a friend of a friend?”

I smirk at her. “Smartass. A friend of a friend set this up. It’s no big deal.”

She slowly shakes her head as we sit at the table, the chairs upholstered with red velvet and brass tacks because everything in this place needs to beat you over the head with Christmas.

“This is amazing,” she says, leaning across the table as if she’s sharing a secret. “Rowan…this is maybe the best day I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” I say, taking her hand, and I mean it. I wouldn’t have chosen to do any of these things on my own, but with her, they were okay. No, they were more than okay. They made me fall a little bit in love with this place too—they helped me see it with the blinders that tourists wear whenever they pop in for their weekends away.

I let Kennedy order whatever she wants for me, with the disclaimer that I won’t be drinking alcohol because I’m her driver, and we end up with hot chocolates covered in so much whipped cream that the sight of one of these suckers would probably give Harry a panic attack from all the dairy. We talk easily, the way we’ve been doing all night. About Highland Hills.Leto’s Hands. And at one point, she laughs herself into near hysterics over the coincidence that my best friend is named Oliver and hers is named Olive.

When we’re done, I take her hand, and we walk to Ziggy’s. “My little sister wanted to meet you,” I say, rubbing a thumb over the back of her hand. I’ve already told her why Ivy’s been helping out at the brewery. “She’s going to bring us some food.”

Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone I know is lying in wait in the tap room, hoping we’ll come in so they can see how it’s going. We’re barely through the door of the modern-industrial style tap room when Ivy descends on us.

“Right this way,” she says, without even introducing herself. She leads us to a booth in the back, where we’ll be relatively tucked away. Once we’re seated, she beams at Kennedy. “The red wig suits you. I loved wearing the red. I got a job at the zoo wearing that wig.” She pats her chest. “I’m Ivy, by the way. I knowyourname.”

Kennedy’s cheeks flush slightly, then something sparks in her eyes. “You’re the romance novelist! That’s amazing. I’d love to read your books sometime.”

Ivy winks. “I’ll hook you up. Don’t wait on this guy to bring you any. Rowan Mayberry likes to pretend I write children’s books.”

She says it so casually, but there’s a pinch of hurt to it, and I suddenly feel like an asshole. It’s not her fault that the guys at the firehouse are dicks about her writing. Or that someone made a sign with “Cupid” on it on Valentine’s Day and tacked it up on my front door. I’m proud of Ivy, and if you’re proud of someone, it’s best to tell them, isn’t it? I’ve spent so much of my life not telling people how I feel—not even acknowledging my feelings to myself. Where has it gotten me?

I swallow. “I’m proud of you, Ivy. We all are.”

There’s a pleased twinkle in her eyes as she cuts a bow. “Now let me get y’all some food. I’d bring over menus, but let’s be frank, the burgers are the only food worth having here. That sound okay?”

We both nod, and Ivy hustles off. As she leaves, I see a solo man at a table near us look up and watch her, and there’s a frank appreciation in his gaze that makes me bristle. I glare at him; he doesn’t notice. He’s wearing glasses, and there’s a stack of paper in front of him, like he decided a brewery was a good place to get some work done. But he’s a stranger, and the most beautiful woman in the world is across from me, so my attention doesn’t stick to him for more than half a second.

“Have you spoken to Jay?” Kennedy asks, leaning over the table, and I have another moment of discomfort, of feeling like I’ve done something important wrong. Ididsee Jay at the hospital last week, after I spoke with Ivy and Willow, but we weren’t alone together. He gave me plenty of significant looks, which I ignored. I asked him about his health. He asked me about my toy cars. That was that. I haven’t gone by the house since he was released from the hospital. Nor have I asked him about Kerry and the podiatrist. I need to do those things, but I haven’t felt ready for them.

“No,” I admit. “Not really.”

“Would you like help practicing?” she asks. “Sometimes it helps if you practice all the different ways a conversation could go.”

---