Page 11 of Mountain Daddy
Elsie gasps, delighted. “It DOES!”
Wells chuckles — an honest to God chuckle — and something flutters low in my stomach.
I roll out another sheet of dough while he reaches past me for the gingerbread cutters. His arm brushes mine, strong and warm, and I freeze for a heartbeat.
So does he.
We look at each other.
There it is again.
The current.
The unspoken thing threading itself between us.
He clears his throat. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
Too fine.
Ridiculously fine.
We fall into a rhythm without speaking — me cutting shapes, him moving the tray, our movements brushing, syncing, overlapping in ways that feel dangerously natural.
“How’d you end up in Alaska again?” he asks quietly, not looking at me as he smooths parchment onto a baking sheet.
“Long story,” I say. “Short version? I needed a change.”
“From Nebraska.”
He says it like he remembers every detail I’ve ever mentioned.
“From everything,” I admit. “I love it here. But this is the first time it’s felt like home.”
He stills.
Just subtly.
Just enough for me to see it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that.”
We stare at each other for a second too long.
Then:
“Daddy!” Elsie yelps. “My snowflake cookie looks like a spider!”
Wells snorts, breaking whatever spell we were under. “Then don’t tell Mrs. Carver. She hates spiders.”
Elsie shrieks with laughter.
I beam.
For a moment, everything feels perfect.
And then the lights flicker.
