Page 11 of Mountain Man's Christmas Star
“That’s…” I swallowed hard. “That’s incredible. That’s what you’ve been working for, right? A brick-and-mortar presence?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t sound thrilled. She sounded like someone announcing her own funeral.
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked.
She looked up at me, and those blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I don’t know if I want to go back to Cincinnati anymore.”
Hope shot through me like a flare—bright, stupid, dangerous. But reality came crashing down right after. Of course she had to go back. That was her dream. What did I have to offer? A quiet mountain town with more deer than people?
“You have to take it,” I said, hating every single word. “It’s too good to pass up.”
“Do I?” She stood, finally facing me fully. “What if I don’t want it anymore?”
I wanted to tell her to stay. To beg her. But I’d watched what happened when someone gave up their dreams for love.
My dad had done it. Stayed in Wildwood Valley for my mom when Denver had offered him the world. He’d never said out loud that he regretted it, but sometimes I caught him staring out at the mountains with a look that gutted me.
“You can’t make decisions based on one night,” I said softly.
She flinched like I’d hit her. Her face went smooth, her voice even. “Right. One night. That’s all it was.”
Fuck. Not what I meant. But before I could untangle the mess, she’d already turned back to her soaps, hands moving too fast, too precise.
We worked in silence after that, tension stretched tight as fishing line. Around us, carolers rehearsed near the tree, the sound guy let the mic squeal feedback across the grounds, and the air smelled of cinnamon and fried dough. It should’ve beenfestive, but I felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart.
I was adjusting her display sign when I noticed movement near the storage area. “Ivy,” I said, nodding toward the back. “Look.”
She followed my gaze and froze. “Is that?—?”
A raccoon. A fat one, scurrying with something clamped in its mouth. We both got a clear look before it disappeared.
One of her star soaps.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
We crept closer, quiet as thieves. Rustling, chittering met us. More than one animal.
“There,” Ivy whispered.
Behind the stacked tables, we found… well, honestly, something out ofNational Geographicmeets Santa’s workshop. A whole raccoon family—two adults, three babies—had built a stash. But not just a pile. A neat little hoard.
One neat row of Ivy’s soaps, sorted by color. Another of stolen Christmas ornaments. A third of tea lights, lined up like soldiers.
“They’re…organized thieves,” Ivy breathed.
“Smart little bastards,” I said, pulling out my phone to snap pictures. “Shiny things, scented things…your soaps are basically raccoon catnip.”
We both watched as one raccoon delicately placed a jingle bell in the ornament row, then nudged it until it was perfectly aligned.
“Incredible,” Ivy whispered, though I could hear the sadness tucked beneath her wonder.
I snapped more pictures. The vendors were going to lose their minds over this. But all I could think was that in a few hours, Ivy might be gone. The raccoons had been stealing Christmas to build their own little wonderland. And here I was,about to let the best thing that ever happened to me walk away because I was too afraid to ask her to stay.
One of the baby raccoons looked up, an ornament in its paws. I swear it gave me a judgmental side-eye. Like,Do something, idiot.
It wasn’t wrong.
