Page 27 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
He’s already shaking his head. “I said things. I was out of line. I hate when others prejudge me without knowing shit about me or my life. I did that very thing to you. I was triggered. I was wrong.”
Wow. The heat of his breath warms my lips, he’s so close. His body is a magnet. I want to burrow into that barrel of a chest as he wraps his coat around us both.
“I hate that whatever happened to you growing up took away the childhood wonder and magic of Christmas. It’s in my nature to want you to love it. But my insistence to know your secrets that are yours, and yours alone, was out of line. I won’t push again.”
The blue-green flare to life but still narrow, watching intently before he nods subtly. “Thank you. We may not agree, but I won’t lash out at you again. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, not being able to look away.
My eyes trace his face. His vibrant eyes framed by weathered lines that speak to hard years lived. The notable scar along his jawline peeking out of dark blonde scruff peppered with silver.
My phone chooses that moment to chirp with new social media alerts, making both of us jerk apart.
Clearing his throat, Owen looks way up at the tree, studying it in his manner with rugged intensity.
“She’s pretty spectacular, isn’t she?” I smile, nudging my shoulder against his arm.
His eyes bounce from mine to my lips before looking back at the tree. At his silence, I share the stats and talk about Harold before Owen leads us back down the path to the front of the property.
“We should head back,” he says, walking up to his truck.
“I got here just fine this morning. Thank you, but I’ll schedule a rideshare.”
Exasperated, which almost makes me smile, Owen stands by his truck with his hand on the hood. Something about testing his patience on the little things is satisfying.
“Lettie. First, why call a stranger to navigate you back to Eden Ridge when I’m here? And two, it’s a waste of money when again, I’m here. Come on,” he opens the passenger door.
“You make two valid points. I will take the offer,” I determine, but pause before sliding in. “But, I’m paying for gas.” Then hop up onto the seat.
Owen’s hand lands on my waist. The gesture stalls the breath in my lungs. His large hand squeezes lightly before letting go.
“Buckle up,” he grunts, closing the door and making it around the truck to his side.
The drive starts quietly but not uncomfortably. Soft music plays on his radio, the heater is just right to keep us toasty, and I work off my tablet as he occasionally taps the steering wheel along the rhythm of the music.
The truck angles down the mountain, and I gasp. Below is a large Christmas festival in motion at a nearby town.
“Owen,” I bounce in my seat. “Can we stop? Please?”
His eyes travel until he sees it. Instantly, he hardens. “No.”
“Okay, hear me out,” I say, turning my body toward him. “I want to show you what we’re aiming to achieve. It’s more than the logistics of putting an event together. It’s about the emotions and experiences we’re going to evoke for people. And,” I add, “I’d love to show you what it is about Christmas festivals that I love personally. Why they mean so much to me.”
I fold my hands on my lap, squeezing them together so he doesn’t see them shaking with excitement. My eyes are large and blinking with hope at the side of his face. He turns his head and studies me. Those capable hands squeeze the worn leather of the steering wheel.
Sighing, he faces the road and takes the next exit toward the town.
Impulsively, I lean over and press a quick kiss on his cheek. Ignoring his sharp turn as he watches me, bewildered, I squeal in my seat, watching the festival get closer, making a list in my head of all the things I hope to see and show him.
Owen McKenna and I are at a truce right now, and this either could be the balm that pushes us over to dare I say, friends, or blows up in my face.
I’m an optimist. I may not get the man to ever love Christmas, but perhaps, I can help him forget his demons for an afternoon and embrace the magic around him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
OWEN
Ican't believe I'm doing this.
