Page 47 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
“You already have made me proud, Lettie. The response to the Festival, the social media boost, the connections we’re networking for future town events, that’s all thanks to your hard work this month. Don’t diminish your talent. Not everything comes through. We pivot. We’re resilient. Rebel Pine Events always finds a way.”
I softly laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ew, don’t call me ma’am. You’re only a few months younger than me,” Nora’s voice turns steel. But it’s part of her nature, I’ve learned.
“Thank you for your honesty and support,” I say.
“Anytime, Lettie. Now, get back to work.”
I laugh fully this time. “I’m on it.”
We finalize a few checklist items before hanging up. I sit back and watch the festival from my window. The ground is freshly white from last night’s snow. Families are bundled up, exploring, and taste testing. Tomorrow, Hunter Distillery opens its booth to reveal their non-alcoholic series.
And then I think of Owen. The kisses he peppered over my bare shoulder before this morning’s deep rasp said, Good morning.
Owen’s been wonderful. He’s come to life in a way that’s been breathtaking to witness. We have spent every night together since the date at Rosetti’s, learning each other’s bodies. I’ve never felt such pleasure. My favorite part is watching the soft flurries out the window while lying on his naked body.
Being with Owen fills me with peace and acceptance. The way I catch him watching me from across a room lights my entire body up with a deep joy that isn’t loud. It runs through your veins, spreading into your DNA and becoming one with who you’re evolving into. It feels like love.
My phone dings with notifications. I turn it over, and my chest tightens. Someone posted a picture of Owen and me at Rosetti’s from the other night and tagged me with the hashtags #ChristmasQueen and her #ChristmasMountainKing.
My sour mood lifted after my conversation with Nora. But it’s returning. Old fears grip my heart in a vice. Intrusive thoughts spiral.
Owen isn’t Trent. I know that. It hasn’t helped that my mother keeps sending me texts asking who was that man at the tree farm. I already know I’ll be getting a call at some point today over this.
Two soft knocks.
“Snowflake, it’s me.”
“Son of a biscuit,” I whisper, wiping my face, removing any residual tears from my cheeks. I inhale and exhale before calling out cheerfully. “Come in.”
“Hey, beautiful, I brought us lunch, thinking–What’s wrong?”
Damn it. This man reads me in ways that astound me. I love it, but in this moment, I wish my facade was strong enough to convince him.
“I’m fine. What did you bring?” I smile.
He sets the Roasted Pine cafe paper bag down on my desk, comes around, and turns my chair to face him. Owen takes my hips and lifts me, then sits in my chair and places me on his lap. My body instantly melts into him.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed a hug right now.
I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his shoulder. He rubs my back, massaging my thigh with his other hand.
“Let’s try that again,” he rasps softly. “What’s wrong?”
Sighing, I glance down at more notifications coming in. I hand him my phone. I’ve been hiding the hashtag for the past couple of weeks, hoping he wouldn’t see it, and any progress we’ve made as whatever we are wouldn’t get ruined. Owen from the first week, who viscerally despised all things Christmas, might have blown a gasket being labeled by thousands of people online,Christmas Mountain King.
I hold my breath as he scrolls through comments and sees the picture taken of us while we sang karaoke. I’m still in awe of the laugh he released after willingly getting on stage and singing a Christmas song together.
“We look good,” he says, surprising me.
I scoff an unexpected laugh. “We do,” I smile at the expression on his face in the picture as he sings in my face, and I’m laughing.
“This bothers you?” he asks. When I don’t immediately respond, he continues. “I’m not him, you know. I’m not even on social media.”
I nod.
“This? You and me?” Owen sets my phone back down on the desk and cups my cheek, encouraging me to lift my head and look at him. “This is our business. Not theirs. I get that they care about your life, but in the end, those people are strangers. They don’t get to dictate your life. What you and I do is for us and us alone.”
