Page 2 of Tangling with the Christmas
I press the gas, just a little, just enough to make the turn onto what I hope is a driveway. The tires grip, then don't. The back end slides, slow at first, then faster.
"No no no—"
The car fishtails, spins, and slides straight into a snowbank with a crunch that rattles my teeth and sends my phone flying into the floorboard. A box filled with Christmas decorations isthrown forward from the back seat, showering me in tinsel and mini candy canes.
For a moment, everything is silent except for the hiss of the heater and Bing Crosby crooningWhite Christmaslike nothing's wrong. Like I'm not stuck on a mountain with night coming on fast.
"Well," I sigh, retrieving my phone and brushing a strand of tinsel from my coat. "That could've gone better."
A shadow moves outside my window, cutting through the swirling white. Tall. Broad enough to block out what little light remains. Wearing a flannel jacket dusted with snow and a scowl that could curdle eggnog.
He knocks on the glass, the sound sharp in the muffled quiet. "You trying to get yourself killed?"
I blink up at him, half dazzled by the way the dying light catches in his dark beard, half annoyed that my grand rescue mission has turned into me being the one who needs rescuing. "Depends who's asking."
"The guy who owns this road." He gestures toward the snowbank, toward my poor car buried to its bumper. "And the snowbank you just crashed into."
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push open the door with more confidence than I feel. My foot immediately sinks calf-deep in snow, cold seeping through my jeans. "Perfect. Are you Rhett Walker?"
He folds those ridiculously muscled arms over his chest, and even through the thick flannel I can see he's built like someone who splits logs for fun. "Depends who's asking."
"Rosemary Green," I announce, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes—which takes more effort than I expected because the man istall. "Event planner for the Mercury Ridge Christmas Festival. And you, sir, are late delivering the town tree."
He stares at me for a long moment, snowflakes catching in his dark hair, melting on his shoulders. His eyes are the color of strong coffee, and right now they're taking in every detail: my snow-covered boots, the tinsel still clinging to my coat, the sparkle on my knit hat. "You came up here in a storm to yell at me about a tree?"
"Well, technically, tocollectthe tree." I gesture toward my buried car. "But yes."
He exhales a long, frosty sigh that I can see in the air between us. His gaze travels from my impractical boots to my determined expression, and something shifts in his face. Not quite amusement, but close. "You're insane, aren’t you?"
I lift my chin higher, even as my toes start going numb. “I'm festive."
For half a heartbeat, I swear his mouth twitches beneath that beard.Was that almost a smile?
Then he turns, already trudging toward a cabin tucked in the trees, his footsteps leaving deep prints in the fresh snow. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Come on, Miss Festive. Before you freeze solid."
Chapter 2
Rhett
Thisgirl'sgonnafreezebefore she reaches my porch.
She's half-buried in snow, boots caked with ice, cheeks pink as cranberries, and she's still talking. Something about "saving Christmas" and "community spirit" and a dozen other things I stopped listening to the moment I realized she's serious about being up here.
"Watch your step," I tell her, but she's already wobbling up the path like a baby deer in glitter boots, arms windmilling for balance.
"It'sso prettyup here," she says, spinning in a slow circle as snow catches in her hair, turning the dark strands silver. "Like a Hallmark movie. Do you know how lucky you are? This view?"
I grunt, shouldering open the door. "Come on, before you get frostbite."
When I push inside, heat rolls out from the woodstove. She steps inside and lets out a tiny, happy sigh that hits me right in the chest, as unexpected as a sucker punch.
"This is perfect," she says, brushing snow from her coat and leaving little puddles on my floor. Her eyes take in everything from the rough-hewn beams to the stone fireplace to the collection of hand tools hung on the wall. "Rustic. Cozy. Very…grumpy lumberjack chic."
I arch a brow, hanging my coat on the hook by the door. "I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
"Oh, it's a compliment." She flashes a smile that could melt the snow off my roof, bright and genuine and entirely too much for this quiet space. "I'm Rosemary, by the way. Though I guess you figured that out. And you're Rhett Walker, the man who's single-handedly holding up the entire Mercury Ridge Christmas Festival."
"You didn’t need to come up here." I move toward the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. "The tree will be delivered when the storm passes."
