Page 7 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
He nodded, but neither of us moved immediately. The comet blazed overhead, and I felt like we'd just participated in something cosmic and eternal.
"Gavin?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. For showing me this. For seeing me."
"Thank you for letting me."
As we made our way back down the mountain, his hand occasionally steadying me on the tricky parts of the trail, I found myself humming again. The melody was new, born from starlight and spiced cider and the taste of possibility on my lips.
Maybe I wasn't ready to quit music after all.
4
Gavin
Since I'd tasted her lips under the comet's light, and I couldn't dice an onion without thinking about the way she'd hummed against my mouth. The prep kitchen behind the community center usually kept me grounded, with stainless steel surfaces, gas burners that responded to my touch, the familiar rhythm of knife work. Today it felt like a cage.
Every time I tried to lose myself in the meditation of cooking, I'd catch myself listening for her voice from the main stage or remembering the soft sound she'd made when my thumb traced her lower lip.
Focus, MacLeod.People needed to eat.
Grammy's venison pie recipe lay open on the counter beside me, her handwriting faded but still legible. The secret ingredients were lined up—wild mushrooms, tender venison, root vegetables, Christmas spices that made her pies legendary in three counties.
The kitchen door swung open behind me, letting in festival chatter and the scent of snow. Probably another volunteer looking for supplies.
"Gavin?”
The voice made my knife pause mid-chop. Sadie. But not the polished performer or even the vulnerable woman from the mountain. This voice was rough, strained.
I turned to find her leaning against the doorframe, one hand pressed to her throat. Her stage makeup was smudged, exhaustion clinging to her again.
"Your voice," I said, setting down the knife. "What happened?"
"Too many songs, not enough rest." She stepped into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind us. "Sound guy kept asking for level checks, then the interview ran long."
Jesus.No wonder she looked ready to collapse. I pulled out a stool and gestured for her to sit.
"Stay put."
I moved through the kitchen with purpose, assembling Grammy's remedy—honey from local apiaries, fresh ginger, lemon juice, and a shot of good whiskey. The tea kettle was already steaming. I measured everything with the same precision I'd use for a sauce that could make or break a dish.
"Grammy's cure for singers and preachers," I said, carrying the steaming mug over. "Sip it slow. The whiskey bites, but it works."
She accepted it with both hands, breathing in the aromatic steam before taking a careful sip. Her eyes closed in appreciation, and that unconscious hum started in her chest—soft, barely audible, but unmistakably there.
There she is. The real one.
"Better?" I asked after she'd taken several sips.
"Much." Her voice was already less strained. "You're going to make someone a very happy spouse someday."
We both blushed. I turned back to my prep work, using the knife to channel energy that had nowhere else to go.
"I should get back soon. Keisha's expecting me to—"
"Keisha can wait five minutes for you to eat something that isn't caffeine."
