Page 2 of Mountain Man's Christmas Gift
“Candy canes are festive.”
“Exactly my point.”
This was ridiculous. And oddly entertaining. “Okay, okay. I’ll make you a mocha with minimal festivity. But it’s still going to taste like Christmas, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”
“Deal with it,” he repeated, like he was testing the words.
“Yep. Deal with it. Like a grown-up.” I turned to start his drink, hyperaware of those green eyes tracking my every move.
I could feel him still staring as I worked, and when I handed him the cup—a perfectly reasonable mocha with just a light dusting of cinnamon on top—our fingers brushed. The contact sent a little shock through me, and from the way his eyes darkened, he felt it too.
“Six dollars,” I said, proud that my voice stayed steady.
He handed me a ten. “Keep the change.”
“That’s a sixty-seven percent tip. Are you trying to impress me?”
“Is it working?”
The question caught me off guard. There was something almost vulnerable in the way he asked it, despite his gruff exterior.
“Ask me tomorrow,” I said before I could think better of it.
“Tomorrow?”
“The wrap party. You know, where everyone celebrates surviving another festival season?” I tilted my head. “Unless you’re not actually part of this festival crew, in which case you’re just a very lost, very caffeinated tourist.”
He took a sip of his mocha, and I watched his expression change from resignation to surprise to something that might have been approval.
“I’ll see you at the wrap party,” he said.
“Perfect,” I said, then added with a playful smile, “I’ll try not to assault you with too much Christmas cheer.”
I watched him go, admiring the view despite myself, until he disappeared into the crowd. Only then did I realize I was grinning like an idiot.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.
