Page 1 of Mistletoed with the Mountain Man
CHAPTER 1
NIA
Ibalance near the top rung of the ladder, stretching to hang a vintage glass angel onto the highest branch of the window display tree.
My fingers brush the delicate ornament…one of Dad's favorites from the collection Aunt Meredith has somehow convinced me isexactly what this display needs, rather than a reminder of everything I've lost.
Two Christmases without him.
Two years of pretending the holidays still sparkle.
"A little to the left, honey!" Aunt Meredith calls from behind the counter, where she's simultaneously watching me nearly break my neckandsome home renovation show on her tablet.
I adjust the angel and lean back—using the side of the ladder to hold onto—to admire my work.
It’s come together beautifully: vintage ornaments cascading like frozen waterfalls, twinkling lights wrapped around birch branches I've dragged in from the woods behind the shop, and a hand-painted sign that reads "Mountain Memories: Where Every Ornament Has a Story."
Dad would’ve loved it.
He would've stood outside with his coffee, grinning at me through the glass, giving me two thumbs up before coming in to rearrange exactly one thing just to make me laugh.
I blink hard and focus on adjusting a ribbon.
This is fine. I'm fine. I've just spent another holiday season creating magic I don't really feel, armed with a business degree I'm not using and a future I'm expertly avoiding thinking about.
"Nia, sweetheart, are you planning to come down from there, or should I bring you lunch?" Aunt Meredith's voice holds that particular blend of concern and amusement she's perfected over the past two years of watching me float through life.
"I'm creating art," I say, climbing down and dusting silver glitter off my jeans. It's a losing battle; I've been covered in glitter since Thanksgiving. "Art takes time."
"Art pays bills too, last time I checked." She peers at me over her reading glasses. "Speaking of which, have you thought any more about?—"
"Oh, would you look at that." I gesture dramatically toward the window. "I think that garland needs fluffing."
"Nia Jane Wallace, you can't fluff garland forever."
"Oh yeah? Watch me." But I don't make it back to the ladder because that's when I feel it—that prickle of awareness that means someone is watching me.
I turn toward the front window.
A mountain of a man stands outside on the snowy sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of a dark jacket, his breath fogging in the cold air.
And he isn't looking at the display.
He's looking at me.
Our eyes lock through the glass, and something hot zips down my spine despite the December chill.
He's really tall, with dark blonde hair and the kind of jaw that’s chiseled from stone. Even from here, I can feel theintensity in his gaze, the way he seems to be assessing every detail.
Deepwood Mountain has maybe three thousand permanent residents. And I know every single one of them.
This man…is definitely not from here.
"Well, hello," Aunt Meredith murmurs, coming to stand beside me. "Nowthat'swhat I call a Christmas present."
The stranger seems to realize he's been caught staring. He shifts his weight, then heads for the door of the shop.
The bells chime as he enters, andsweet baby Jesus in a manger, he's even better looking up close. Broad shoulders that fill the doorway, shadowed stubble along that criminal jaw, and eyes the color of deep mountain pools that I have not just internally waxed poetic about because I'm a grown woman, not some Victorian maiden.
