Page 2 of Mountain Man's Winter Wonder
“I want to.” His tone was steady, no room for argument. Then, softer, with a ghost of a smile, “Besides, I like an excuse to play hero.”
“Hero might be a stretch.” I tried for dry, but my voice came out shaky.
“Give me time. I’ve got a cape in the truck.”
He winked before striding away, leaving me with my jaw slightly unhinged.
When he returned with a toolbox, I couldn’t look away. He moved with quiet efficiency, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. He turned disaster into order, keeping the kids engaged with little instructions, teasing them just enough to make them giggle through their guilt.
I should have been devastated. My dreams lay in shards. But instead, I was watching him, hypnotized by the surety in his movements, the warmth in his voice, the way the air around us seemed to shift—sharper, brighter, charged.
“There,” he finally said, straightening, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Good as new.”
Not even close. At least a half dozen of my prized snow globes were broken. My chest ached.
“Maybe I should just pack up and go home,” I said.
“Don’t.” He pulled out his wallet. “How much for the damaged ones?”
I blinked. “They’re broken. Worthless.”
He shook his head, eyes locked on mine, steady as a promise. “Nothing you make could ever be worthless.”
The festival noise faded. It was just him, the scent of pine and roasted chestnuts, the warmth of his gaze. And my heart—battered, fragile as glass—daring to hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t beyond repair.
2
BUCK
Her name was Sheraton, and she looked like sin dressed in snowflakes.
I’d spotted her the first day of the festival and spent the entire week pretending I was only fixing wiring or hauling equipment when really, I was stealing glances. She had this way of tilting her head when she studied her snow globes—like she was peering into another world—and I couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to be let into hers.
But the festival was almost over. In two days, she’d head home, and I’d be left kicking myself for not finding the guts to talk to her.
I finally worked up the courage, only to have my timing wrecked by a pack of kids who plowed through her booth and sent her handcrafted globes smashing to the ground. I did what I could—wrapped her cut hand, wrangled the kids, even offered to buy the ruined pieces—but before I could say more, a shopper swooped in, demanding her attention.
So I got to work. There was plenty to do around here, but it was hard to concentrate when all I could think about was thatvoice. That frown. Those gorgeous green eyes and that thick, sandy-blonde hair that made my fingers itch to touch.
Just as I was trying to come up with a reason to go talk to her again, Keaton’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Motherfucker.”
I shot upright, scanning the festival in front of us. “What the hell’s your problem?”
But then I caught it too—that sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Rain.
Dark clouds muscled across the sky, rolling fast, the kind that didn’t ask permission. “Shit,” I muttered, grabbing the toolbox. “Cover the gear.”
We scrambled to save the PA system, but the first fat drops smacked against my scalp, and then the sky just—opened. A downpour hammered the square. Families shrieked and bolted for their cars, vendors dove for tarps, fried-dough oil hissed as rain pelted sizzling griddles.
“There.” Keaton jabbed a finger toward the big white tent that had been hosting wreath-making workshops.
We sprinted for it, boots splashing, soaked to the bone by the time we ducked inside.
Chaos. Wet wool, hot chocolate, pine sap—every inch of the tent smelled like December itself. Kids chattered about the storm while volunteers scrambled to keep ribbon and holly from getting trampled.
And then I saw her.
Sheraton stood near the entrance, dripping wet, hair plastered against her cheek. Her shirt clung to her in ways that fried every working brain cell I had left. She was hugging herself against the cold, looking so damn lost, it hit me like a gut-punch.
