Page 2 of Mountain Man's Autumn Angel
“That’s the dream, isn’t it? My own place, a real studio, maybe even a little shop.” She gestured around at the festival. “Events like this are great, but what I’d really love is a permanent spot where people could browse year-round.”
An idea began forming in my head—dangerous and impulsive and probably stupid. “What if I told you I might know of a place?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“There’s going to be a Christmas craft fair here in December. Right on this same land. And—” I paused, my heart hammering again. “I’ve been thinking about making it a regular thing. Maybe quarterly festivals. Spring, summer, fall, winter.”
“That sounds amazing.” Her eyes lit up. “But wouldn’t it be expensive? All the permits and insurance and coordination?”
“Not if I have the right partner. Someone who knows the business and understands what vendors needed.” The words were coming out before I could stop them. “Someone like you.”
She stared at me. “Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you a partnership. You help me plan and run these seasonal festivals, and in return, you get prime boothspace at every event. Plus, the way this town is picking up, you could eventually set up a year-round shop here.”
“Melanie Hayes.” She extended her hand, and when I took it, I felt that same electric jolt I’d felt the first time she’d messaged me six months ago. “This is crazy, Luca. We just met, and you’re helping me with my business?”
“Sometimes the best opportunities are crazy,” I said, still holding her hand. “What do you say we walk around the festival together? You can tell me what you think works and what doesn’t. Consider it a working interview.”
She glanced back at her booth, then at the nearly empty pathways. The afternoon crowd was thinning out.
“I should probably pack up soon…”
“Or,” I said, “you could let me buy you dinner tonight.”
She bit her lip, considering. “A working dinner?”
“The most important kind.” I smiled. “It’s not the same as corn dogs and funnel cakes, but…”
She laughed—a real laugh that made her whole face light up. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?”
As we walked away from her booth, I kept stealing glances at her profile. She had no idea that Luca Cook was the same person who’d been messaging her as “Lumberjack47” for months. The man who knew her favorite color was sage green, that she drank her coffee with oat milk, and that she stayed up too late watching pottery tutorials on YouTube.
I should tell her. Right now, before this went any further.
But she was pointing out things about the other vendors’ setups, asking intelligent questions about foot traffic and logistics, and then there was the way she looked at me when I answered. Like I was interesting. Like I was worth her time.
When was the last time someone had looked at me like that in person?
I’d tell her later. After we’d had a chance to work together, to see if this partnership idea had real potential. After she got to know the real me, not just the cartoon avatar I’d presented online.
What could possibly go wrong?
2
MELANIE
Iwas a cheater. Paint a big scarlet “A” on my chest.
Wait, no, that wasn’t right. I hadn't actually done anything yet—just had feelings for two men. I hadn’t even met the man I was cheating on. Not in person, anyway. I knew him as Lumberjack47—just a really nice guy who’d bought several of my pieces. A guy I was sure was my future husband.
Until recently, I thought he felt the same. We’d talked on the phone almost every night for six months, but all that cut off once I got to Wildwood Valley. I hadn’t even gotten a response to my texts. I’d given up after a few days.
Maybe I’d been dumped, so it wasn’t cheating, after all.
Luca had left me at my booth mid-afternoon, and I actually sold a couple more pieces—a planter and a vase to the same woman. No one was interested in my angels. I just hoped that would change if I participated in the Christmas festival.
I covered my table with one of the vendors’ tarps, then headed to my car. I wasn’t meeting Luca for another eighteen minutes—definitely not counting. If I showed up at the diner across the street too early, he’d think I was anxious. I should be fashionably late.
