Page 40 of The Runaway Bride of Blitzen Bay (Blitzen Bay)

“I know. I know,” I say, sighing as he takes the chair across from me. “I’m getting in too deep. God, I just met her a few hours ago. I don’t know why I feel so protective. Something about her . . .”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” He takes a drink of his wine. “How’d my jacket work out for you?”

“Oh man, I think she’s still wearing it. I need to get it back and have it dry cleaned or something.”

“Nash, I don’t care about the jacket. I’m trying to get your mind on something else. You want to talk about sports, cars, money?”

“Naw, man,” I say, smiling, “but I appreciate the effort.”

“I got you. We can talk about that kidnapping movie again if you want. I’m still not clear on it. Did they kidnap all the girls at the same time? Or like one by one?”

I stroke my beard. “Seems like it would be easier to take them all at once, right? I guess it matters how far apart they lived and stuff.”

“And what weapons the men had, if any?” he says as he takes another sip of his wine.

“Right. And if they went in as a team or did individual assaults. Too many variables without watching the movie.”

He nods in agreement. When Claire finally comes back down the stairs, we’re deep into a conversation about my firewood.

“She wants her bag,” Claire says as she picks it up. “And she’s fine. She’s already wrapped up in bed with a cup of hot cider.”

“Do her feet have frostbite?” I look up the stairs to the last place I saw her.

“She’s fine, Nash. Her feet—everything. Just give her a little space.” She leans over to kiss the top of my head. “You’re a sweet man.”

I stand as she walks back up the stairs. I watch her disappear again. I need to get out of here and clear my head. I’ll help Elle find some clothes tomorrow since I told her I would, but then I need to wash my hands of her. She’s not available and the thoughts that are swirling around in my head are not going to lead me any place good.

“Nash? You want another?” Hank says, pointing to my beer.

“No, I should go. Thanks for the beer.” I hand my empty to him. “I’ll bring your first delivery of firewood by tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” he says as he follows me to the door. “See you tomorrow, Nash.”

I stand on the porch for a few minutes, looking up at the big Christmas tree. I was here twenty-four hours ago—looking at the same tree—and I didn’t feel an ounce of Christmas spirit. Now, looking up at all the lights, I feel like a little kid waking up on Christmas morning.

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