Page 47 of Mistletoe Season
“And a foreigner,” he added, lowering his pumpkin to a designated spot and walking back to the truck.
“What about a hayride? Or a big, loud, sometimes dangerous Thanksgiving dinner?” Even as she spoke, her smile grew wider, andsomething akin to a glow spread through his chest like internal sunshine.
Strange. And... unnerving.
“Am I supposed towantto experience the latter option?”
“You haven’t fully had an Appalachian American experience without one.” She shot him a look. “I have another question.”
He settled another pumpkin in place. “Alright.”
“Did you decide to call me Charlotte just to irritate me?”
He studied her, his grin twitching for release. “Doesit irritate you?”
“Not irritate, exactly.” Her brows creased as she looked up at him. “It’s just that everyone calls me Charlie.”
“Charlotte is a lovely name, and”—he studied her, the defined and feminine curve of her chin, the slender slope of her nose, and those steely gray eyes—“it suits you better than Charlie, to my mind.”
Her nose wrinkled with her frown. “Your sister said the same thing.”
“We have a particular fondness for the name. There are quite a few impressive Charlottes in our family history. You’d fit in with them, I think.”
One of her brows rose. “Would I?”
“Oh yes.” He picked up another pumpkin, pinching back his smile. “Strong, bighearted.”
“Well, that sounds nice.”
“A bit stubborn.”
“Hey,” she warned.
He peered over his shoulder, watching her lips war with a smile as she caught up with him. “But am I wrong?”
She shrugged. “Determinedsounds better.”
“Ah yes.” He nodded. “You’re right. Then I feel certain you are theverydetermined sort.”
She raised her chin, stepping back. “And what sort are you?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid you’ve already come to your own conclusions on that score.”
She placed her pumpkin down next to his and then studied him with hands on her hips. “Well, I’m all for you proving me wrong.”
And with a little tip of her head, she turned toward the booth.
His grin grew as he followed her retreating form all the way into the booth, her declaration fueling his determination all the more.
“Miss Charlie!”
A boy rushed forward, copper-colored hair bouncing atop his head with his frantic pace. He pushed passed Arran into the booth. “It’s the worst ever.” His young voice rose with dramatic flair, his large blue eyes equally desperate. “We’re ruined.”
“What on earth is wrong, Jay?” Charlie didn’t respond with the same desperation. “You’re loud enough to wake the dead.”
“But it’s just awful. Patton is sick, and Lou Duncan’s got a broken leg.” His bottom lip quivered. “And my booth is supposed to open in fifteen minutes.Fifteen.”
“Is there something I can do to help?” Arran stepped forward, drawing the boy’s attention toward him for the first time.
