Page 8 of Sharing Noelle

“You mean, sous chef?”

My smile cracks into a grin. “I’m just saying, if you’re looking for the archetypal Vermont Christmas, it doesn’t get more Christmassy than that.”

I rest my hand on Noelle’s in a gesture that’s supposed to be friendly, but for some reason causes blood to flow to my dick. She gasps softly, like she, too, can sense the electricity between us. I watch the wheels spin behind her sage-green eyes. She wants to say yes. I want her to say yes. For reasons both altruistic and entirely inappropriate.

“You’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?” she asks.

“Absolutely. We’re family now, whether we like it or not. That makes my family your family, too.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“Maybe it should.”

Noelle bites her thumbnail, close to surrendering but not convinced. I lean against the bar, giving her room to make her own decision. I don’t want her to feel pressured if this isn’t the kind of holiday she wants. But I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what she’s after.

She glances back at the table where Richard and my mother are taking turns feeding each other bites of something chocolatey.

“Okay,” she says. “When do we leave?”

Chapter Three

Colton

I swing my axe down, cracking the fat log on the block into twin pieces. My groundskeeper and property manager, Antonio Sanchez, gathers the chunks as I make them to add to the piles in our truck beds.

Stack, swing, chop.

I repeat the process, over and over, until my arms are screaming and the beds are full.

“That’s probably good enough,” Antonio says. “I’ll take these around to the upper cabins and meet you back at the lodge, yeah?”

I grunt my assent, slamming the tailgate on my pickup. I met my quota for full-sentence formation a few hours ago when an irritated guest stopped me on the road to complain about the lack of breakfast options in the area.

Shutting off the spotlight on the woodshed, I savor the still, cold quiet of the night, before climbing inside the cab of my truck. I slip off my gloves and start the engine, sending frigid air pouring onto my stiff fingers.

I spent the first half of the day fixing a wobbly railing on one of the cabin’s front porches, and the latter half working on the barn and chopping wood. My son, Sawyer, was supposed to arrive this afternoon, but in typical Sawyer fashion, he’s five hours late.

I could’ve used his help with the railing, and the barn, and the Christmas trees I’ve yet to chop down. I could use him for a lot of things around here, which is why he hardly ever comes.

My truck roars as I shift into reverse and skid in a wide arc on the packed snow. Having grown up here, with these harsh winters, I know to handle slippery roads.

I start down the hill, stopping at each cabin to check the wood stores on the front porches. I don’t knock on doors. Most of the folks who come here do so for the peace and quiet; they don’t want to be disturbed. We make it clear during check-in that firewood will be topped off twice a day, as needed, with the caveat that guests can request a delivery at any time.

It’s skirting ten o’clock when I finally make it back to the lodge. I park in the check-in lot, knowing we aren’t expecting any late arrivals. The lobby, my office, and housekeeping areas are all located on the right side of the lodge, separate from the living quarters and private deck overlooking the pond. There’s an interior door linking the lobby to my living room, but guests generally aren’t allowed to use it. I’ve thought about renting out the lodge to large parties and families who want more space. But I can’t abide the thought of strangers traipsing around the house where my parents lived, worked, and helped raise my son.

I enter through the lobby, leaving my snow-covered boots on the designated rack. Our innkeeper, Frida, Antonio’s better half, has already left for the night. She’s the reason for a good chunk of our positive reviews on Trip Adviser. If the check-in process were left up to me, we’d have gone belly-up the same year my mom passed.

I place the sign with my cell number on the desk, then let myself into the residential side of the lodge. The silence descends on me. Sawyer’s still not here. I check my phone to see if he’s texted, but there aren’t any messages. Maybe he’s decided to come tomorrow instead.

Or maybe this’ll be the year he doesn’t show up at all.

It’s been a long time coming. Every year, I feel the distance between us broadening, like the space between the life he chose and the one I always wanted for him.

The bell on the lobby entrance jingles. A few seconds later, Antonio peeks his salt-and-pepper head into my living room.

“Run into any trouble up the hill?” I ask.

“All’s quiet on the northern front,” he says. “Sawyer’s supposed to come up today, yeah?”

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