Page 1 of Mountain Man's Christmas Gift
1
CAMILLA
“He’s all yours.”
The words came as Lauralie breezed by on her way out of the tent where I was selling fudge and hot cocoa at the Wildwood Valley Christmas festival. She was a local, pitching in a few hours a day here after her shift at the pancake restaurant ended. And now she was walking out, apron left behind, making me realize it was closing time.
And we still had a customer. I saw him out of the corner of my eye and immediately assumed he was the person Lauralie said was all mine. But when I looked in that direction, the words echoed in my head, loud and intrusive, like an announcement over the festival PA system
He’s all mine.
If only.
Wiping my fudge-covered hands on my apron, I started in that direction. His eyes weren’t on me. They were on the phone he held in one gigantic meaty hand. Hands that would feel warm and rough and hot as hell against my bare skin.
I shook my head as though that would clear the thought. It didn’t. So I pasted on a smile and tried to look as professional as possible.
“May I help you?” I asked.
“Coffee. Black.”
He said that without looking up. Did he even realize what booth he’d walked into?
“I don’t sell black coffee,” I said, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “We sell fudge, but we also offer Christmas-flavored mochas and hot cocoa. Peppermint, gingerbread, and spiced orange. Your choice.”
That got his attention. His head snapped up, and whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips.
His eyes—God, they were the most incredible shade of green I’d ever seen—locked onto mine and stayed there. Just…stayed. Like he was seeing something he couldn’t quite believe. The intensity of his stare made my stomach flutter in a way that was completely inappropriate for a business transaction.
No man had ever looked at me like that. Like I was something rare he’d just discovered
“I…” He cleared his throat, his voice rougher than before. “Just coffee. I keep things simple.”
I tilted my head, studying him with mock seriousness. “Nothing about my menu is simple. This is a Christmas festival booth, not a gas station.” I gestured to the chalkboard behind me listing all my specialty drinks in colorful writing. “So you’ll have to pick something festive.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I don’t do festive.”
“Then you’re in the wrong place, mountain man.” I crossed my arms but couldn’t suppress my grin. “Everything here is aggressively festive. I put peppermint in things that have no business having peppermint in them.”
“Mountain man?” His eyebrows shot up.
“Am I wrong? Let me guess.” I counted off on my fingers, enjoying this more than I should. “You live in a cabin, chop your own wood, and think emotions are a sign of weakness.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“Two out of three,” he said.
“Ooh, which one did I miss?”
“I don’t chop my own wood. I have a guy for that.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “How very modern of you.”
“Look, I just need caffeine. No bells, no whistles, no…” He waved a hand at my display case full of fudge samples. “No pink things.”
“The peppermint bark is white and dark chocolate. Hardly pink.”
“It has candy canes.”
