Page 4 of Mountain Man's Christmas Star
“What?” I asked.
“Are you serious right now?” She gestured wildly between her booth and the tree. “Someone steals my soaps and cuts a major light cord, and you don’t think those two things might be connected?”
I blinked. Then felt like an idiot.
“Shit,” I said.
“Yeah, shit.” But she was smiling now, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a festival saboteur.”
The pieces clicked into place in my head. Someone moving around at night, targeting different vendors, causing small but noticeable problems.
“You’re right,” I said. “We need to figure out who’s doing this before they escalate.”
“Exactly.” Ivy started covering her display with the tarp. “So what’s the plan? Stake out the festival tonight?”
“That’s one option.” I watched her efficient movements, the way she secured each corner of the tarp like she’d done it a hundred times. “But first, we should eat something. When’s the last time you had a real meal?”
She paused, tarp half-secured. “Define ‘real meal.’”
“Something that isn’t festival food or coffee.”
“Um.” She bit her lower lip, thinking. “Yesterday, maybe?”
“Right. We’re going to the diner first.” It wasn’t really a request.
“Gunnar, we should?—”
“The saboteur isn’t going to strike while there are still people around. Workers will be milling around, so your stuff will be safe at least until then.” I stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of pine and winter berries that seemed to cling to her skin. “Besides, you need fuel if we’re going to be playing detective tonight.”
Ivy looked up at me, and for a moment, something passed between us that had nothing to do with stolen soaps or cut light cords. Something that made my pulse kick up a notch.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Dinner first. Then we catch ourselves a saboteur.”
I nodded, already looking forward to both parts of that plan more than I probably should have been.
3
IVY
This diner made the North Pole look under-decorated.
The Soda Jerk was a fifties-style restaurant located across from the Wildwood Valley Inn. It was a charming place, complete with pastel booths and a black-and-white checkered linoleum floor.
But right now, every square inch of the place was draped in Christmas decorations. Garland was wrapped around every booth, twinkling lights outlined every window and doorframe, and at least a half dozen different Christmas trees were scattered throughout the dining room, each one themed differently. There was a candy cane tree by the counter, a vintage ornament tree near the jukebox, and what appeared to be an entire winter village displayed on a shelf that ran the perimeter of the restaurant.
It was gloriously, ridiculously over the top. And I loved every bit of it.
The hostess led us to a booth by the window, where we were surrounded by people who seemed to know Gunnar. He got plenty of waves and a couple of fist bumps as we walked through.
Once we were seated, I looked around. “Has anyone ever considered opening a third restaurant here?” I asked, looking out the window.
It had gotten dark in the time it took us to cross the street, get in our cars, and drive the very short two-minute distance from the festival grounds to the diner. But there was enough light to see the inn and the pancake restaurant across the street.
“The town is growing,” he said, “but not that fast.”
He was looking down at his menu as he spoke, and I took the opportunity to drink in his features. He was just so darn handsome. I didn’t know anyone could look that good. His features were rugged, almost severe, but his eyes softened when they met mine. He was a teddy bear inside—a guy who’d do anything for the people he cared about. That kind of guy was my dream man.
“We get tourists from all over,” he said. “People come off the interstate and stay at the inn, but a restaurant can’t survive on that alone. We’re also a small town, and just a couple of exits up, you have more direct visibility from the interstate. We’re tucked away a little.”
