Page 47 of No Business Like Snow Business

Martha was already out of the car, pulling a Tupperware of sugar cookies from a tote I hadn’t even realized she had with her. I exchanged a look with Harvey, who was in the process of chewing his bottom lip raw, but who gave me a quick smile. He asked, “Are we really even in Trixie’s league if we were never tied to a chair by a man in a ski mask and forced to use our ingenuity and grit to free ourselves?”

“The night is young. Someone could still get tied to a chair. Or a bed.”

His jaw literally dropped. Mine almost did too. I couldn’t believe I’d said that. But before I encountered the familiar surge of guilt at leading him on, I leaned forward and kissed him.

His mouth, which had been hanging open, closed. And when it opened again, it was more slowly, his lips pressed to mine, his tongue exploring.

I heard a distant “Yoohoo!” from Martha, and almost jumped back, thinking it was directed at us. But then a man’s voice called a greeting, and as eager as I was for my first glimpse of Freddy, or Cap Guy, I lingered with my lips on Harvey’s. The front of the car was mostly hidden from the cabin door by shrubbery, so Ididn’t think we were in danger of being seen. I smiled against his mouth, and felt him smile in answer.

We slowly drew apart.

“Are you ready?” Harvey asked me.

“Not at all,” I replied honestly.

He took my hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be all right. If Martha likes him this much, then he’s good people.”

But maybeI’mnot good people,I wanted to say.

We got out of the car and followed Martha to the door.

It was Freddy who greeted us. Win. I really had to get used to thinking of him that way. He ushered Harvey and me inside with a big smile on his face, and there was no mistaking him. Older, yes, obviously. But he still looked like the boy in the photograph. He looked a lot like my father too.

Kyle entered from what was presumably the kitchen, wearing a flour-stained apron made to look like the front of a gingerbread man, because of course. These two might not be living in Christmas Falls, but they were definitely Christmas Falls-adjacent. Kyle didn’t appear as much like his younger self—though, not much of him had been visible in the photo, so I couldn’t be sure. But he seemed burlier now, and he had a beard. He and Win both looked at Harvey and me expectantly.

“Harvey, Sterling,” Martha said. “Meet Kyle and Win. Kyle and Win, this is Harvey Novak, from the museum.”

“Ah, so this is Harvey in the flesh,” Kyle said with a grin, sticking out a hand for Harvey to shake. Win was smiling too, but he seemed quieter than his husband. His gaze flicked to me rather than remaining on Harvey, though he did shake Harvey’s hand and say it was nice to meet him.

“And Sterling Van Ruyven,” Martha added, motioning to me.

The cabin went far too quiet.

I’d wanted to be the one to say it, to tell them who I was, to be the first to offer my hand to shake. But once again I found myselfnearly paralyzed, my mind blank. “Hi,” I finally said, stepping forward to shake first Kyle’s hand, then Win’s.

Win’s hand lingered on mine for a moment. “Van Ruyven,” he said quietly. Not with shock, or contempt, or disdain. Just…quietly.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Quentin Van Ruyven’s son.”

“Ah,” Win replied. He seemed interested, curious—but still not shocked. He gave me a smaller, more private smile. “I’m very glad to meet you, Sterling. Why don’t you all have a seat? Kyle’s been working on the mulled wine and gingerbread.”

“I brought cookies too,” Martha piped up, holding out the Tupperware.

The main living space of the cabin was warm and comfortable. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, and knitted blankets bundled on the mismatched couches as though this was where Win and Kyle spent a lot of their time in winter. Books and magazines were stacked on a scuffed coffee table, and Win cleared them onto the floor with a careless sweep of his arm to make room for the Tupperware container. He motioned for us to sit, and I did, Harvey beside me.

I glanced around the room, trying to drink in all the tiny details as though they, and not the man sitting across from me, could tell me everything I needed to know. There was a stag’s head above the fireplace, which wouldn’t have been too unexpected in a rural cabin, except it was made out of purple tartan fabric and had felt antlers and plastic googly eyes.

“Got that off Etsy,” Win said, following my gaze. “Kyles hates it.”

Kyle snorted as he sat beside him. “It’s stupid.”

“It’sironic.”

This sounded like an argument they’d had a million times before. Their voices were fond and amused.

Win tilted his head. “Does the family still have the lodge at Aspen?”

I nodded, my throat dry.

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