Page 14 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
6
Gavin
Christmas Eve morning, I woke to her hand trailing down my chest, her lips pressing soft kisses along my collarbone. Even half-asleep, my body responded instantly, and when she wrapped her fingers around me, I groaned her name into the pre-dawn darkness.
"Good morning to you too," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep and desire.
What followed was slow and thorough and perfect—the kind of morning loving that made a man believe in forever. She moved above me in the faint comet light still visible through the windows, her hair spilling over us while Christmas morning approached with quiet magic. When she came apart in my arms, whispering my name, I felt something settle deep in my chest that I'd been afraid to name.
It wasn't until after, when she was curled against my chest humming softly, that the doubts crept back in.
Dawn painted her sleeping face in soft gold and rose. I'd been content to watch her breathe for an hour, cataloging the small details I'd missed in last night's urgency. The tiny scar above her left eyebrow. The way her lips curved slightly upward even in sleep. The trust implicit in how completely she'd surrendered to rest in my arms.
She wants to stay.
The thought sent warmth flooding through my chest, followed immediately by a chill. Women had said they wanted to stay before. Emma had sworn Paris was just temporary, that culinary school was an investment in our future together. Three months later, she'd sent me a postcard from Provence and a Dear John letter.
But this felt different. The way Sadie had looked at me last night when she'd said she wanted to choose this—us—there'd been desperate honesty in her eyes.
Through the bedroom windows, Christmas Eve morning was crystalline and perfect. Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the mountain in fresh white. The comet's faint trail was still visible against the brightening sky.
Tonight. It reaches its zenith tonight.
My phone buzzed from the nightstand. Text message from an unknown number:
Thank you for a beautiful night. I meant what I said about staying, but I need to know you want me to. See you at the festival. —S
I stared at the message until the screen went dark. She'd given me her number. She'd also given me a choice to believe in what we'd started building, or let my fears turn it into another story about why love never lasted.
Choose, MacLeod.
By the time I made it to the festival grounds, Christmas Eve energy buzzed through the air. Families strolled between vendor booths, kids chased each other around the snow-covered playground. Above it all, a massive banner proclaimed: "Welcome to the Christmas Comet Festival - Peak Viewing Tonight!"
I threw myself into prep work with single-minded focus. Soup stock simmered, bread warmed in portable ovens, and my hands worked with automatic precision while my mind spun through variations of the conversation I needed to have with Sadie.
"You look like someone shot your dog," Beth commented, appearing at my stall with her usual clipboard and caffeine-powered energy. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I lied, ladling soup into containers with more force than necessary. "Just focused on getting through the day."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain country singer who's been asking everyone if they've seen you this morning, would it?"
My hands stilled on the ladle. "She's been asking about me?"
"Honey, she's been asking about you, your schedule, whether you usually work the afternoon shift or the evening one, and if anyone knows what your favorite coffee is." Beth's smile was knowing. "Girl's got it bad."
Hope and guilt warred in my chest. If she'd been looking for me, that meant she wasn't writing off what had happened between us. It also meant I'd hurt her by not responding to her text.
The morning blurred into lunch service, and I was in my rhythm—ladling soup, wrapping sandwiches, acceptingcompliments on Grammy's recipes—when Mrs. Francis approached my stall. She was eighty-seven, had lived in Silver Ridge her entire life, and could reduce me to feeling ten years old with nothing more than a look.
"Gavin MacLeod," she said, accepting her usual bowl of venison stew, "what's this I hear about you moping around when that sweet singer girl has been looking for you all morning?"
I concentrated on ladling her stew. "It's complicated."
"Horseshit." The profanity from someone who'd taught Sunday school for sixty years made me look up in surprise. "You know what's complicated? Regret. Wondering 'what if' for the rest of your life because you were too scared to fight for something good."
"Mrs. Francis—"
"My Harold was supposed to go to Toronto for work in 1962. Good job, big promotion, everything a young man should want." She leaned closer. "But I was here, and he couldn't stand the thought of leaving me behind. Know what he did?"
