Page 8 of Tangling with the Christmas
"Morning," I whisper back, not trusting my voice.
"You sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in a long time." It's the truth. Despite the unfamiliar bed, despite everything, I slept the deep, dreamless sleep of someone who's finally found where they're supposed to be.
He smiles against my skin, and for a heartbeat, it feels easy. Like we've been waking up together forever. Like this is just another morning in a long string of mornings to come.
Then reality slides in like cold air through the cracks in the windowpane.
I have a festival to save. Decorations to hang. A giant Christmas tree still to haul down the mountain. The town will be wondering where I am, if I'm okay, if I've frozen somewhere on a back road.
And he... he doesn't look like a man who leaves his mountain for anything. Last night he told me as much. He's let go of everything except these trees, this cabin, this self-imposed exile.
"I should probably check the road," I say, even though what I mean isI should probably not fall in love with you.Too late for that, though.Way too late.
He sits up, the sheets falling away to reveal the broad expanse of his back, muscles shifting as he reaches for his flannel. "I'll drive you down once it's clear."
The distance in his tone stings more than I expect. Like he's already pulling away, already rebuilding the walls I thought we'dbroken through last night. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, trying not to let him see how much it hurts.
"Thanks," I manage, aiming for cheerful and landing somewhere near brittle. "For... you know. Not letting me freeze to death."
His mouth curves, almost teasing, but there's something guarded in his eyes. "Had to keep you alive. Town still needs that festival of yours."
I laugh, but it's thin, shaky. "Yeah. The show must go on."
He stands, pulling on his jeans, and I force myself to look away. To get dressed. To pretend last night didn't rearrange everything inside me.
While he checks the truck outside, I dress in silence—yesterday's clothes that smell like smoke and feel like a costume now. My reflection in the small mirror looks different somehow. Softer around the edges, and brighter.
A woman who's just discovered how dangerous hope can be.
When he comes back in, stomping snow from his boots, his expression is unreadable. "Road's passable. Your car's gonna need a tow, but I can get you down in the truck. Then I’ll come back for the Christmas tree."
"Okay." The word catches in my throat. "That's... okay."
We don't talk much as he loads a few things into the truck. The silence feels heavy, weighted with all the things neither of us is saying. I want to ask if last night meant anything to him. Want to ask if he feels this too—this terrible, wonderful pull that makes leaving feel impossible.
But I don't. Because maybe I don't want to know the answer.
By the time we bump down the mountain road in his pickup, the snow's melting in watery sunlight, dripping from branches like tears. I keep my eyes on the pines, trying not to think about the way his hand brushed mine on the gearshift, or how last night felt like something real, something lasting.
The town appears below us, picture-perfect in the morning light. Church steeples and shop awnings and the square where my festival will be. My life, waiting exactly where I left it.
At the edge of town, he pulls over, engine idling. Through the windshield, I can see people already moving around, hanging garland, testing lights. Life going on like the world didn't shift on its axis last night.
"You sure you're good from here?" Rhett asks, and I hate that he won't look at me.
I nod, throat tight. "Yeah. Thanks for the rescue, Mountain Man."
I reach for the door handle, but his hand catches my wrist—gentle, just like last night. When I turn back, he's finally looking at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my breath catch.
"Rosemary." My name sounds different in his mouth. Precious. "Last night—"
"Was perfect," I finish, because I can't bear to hear him say it was a mistake. "It was perfect, Rhett. And now it's over. I get it."
"Do you?" His thumb traces circles on my pulse point. "Because I don't think I do."
Before I can respond, before I can ask him what he means, a car horn honks behind us. The mayor, pulling up with an anxious expression. Reality, demanding its due.
