Page 5 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“You know her?” he asks, like that’s a real question.
“She’s been on my For You page daily since 2021,” I say. “How was she? Please say she’s a good human or my day will crumble like this crouton.”
“She was… professional,” he says diplomatically, then adds, “And kind to the crew. Brought her own snacks. Shared.”
“Oh, snack-sharing? Sainted.”
Asher snorts. “Melanie’s metric is snacks.”
“My metric ispeople,” I shoot back. “Snacks are a love language subset.”
Lucas knocks his knuckles lightly against the table like he’s filing this away. “Good to know.”
The way he looks at me—curious, not performative; mild, but engaged—makes my skin fizz in thatoh dearway. I sip water, then change the subject before I ask something weird like what cologne he wears.
After lunch we gear up for photos. The sun’s bright but the wind’s still sharp, so I bundle a scarf around my neck and swap sneakers for boots. We set up by the fence where the mountain backdrop looks unreal. Charlotte cycles dogs in pairs while Icrouch, stand, squeak toys, and deploy my high-pitched “who’s the best pupper” voice that has never failed me, not once.
Lucas hovers nearby. And not in the annoying way, but in the helpful way. He holds the reflector like he was born doing it, finds lost treats in the grass with commando precision, and makes low, encouraging sounds that somehow get the dogs to look straight into the lens like they’re auditioning forDog Vogue.
“You do this a lot?” I ask between shots.
“Different field, same skills,” he says. “Patience. Timing. Reading the subject. Light discipline.”
“Light discipline,” I repeat, pretending to write it on my palm. “And here I was calling it ‘avoid raccoon eyes.’”
He smiles. “That too.”
Major’s shoot is easy—three head tilts, two happy spins, one perfect frame that hits me right in the heart. I show Lucas the screen and he studies it like it’s recon. “You make him look adoptable,” he says.
“Heisadoptable. I just translate it.”
He glances from the image to me and back, something like respect brightening his eyes. Heat flutters low in my chest. I am very professional about it. I only blush a little.
By late afternoon my cheeks are wind-kissed, my camera roll is full, and I’ve lost track of time in that alive way that means I did the right thing coming here. Charlotte tugs me into the kitchen for cocoa while the dogs nap in floppy piles. Asher disappears to take a call. Lucas lingers in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, watching the mountains like he expects them to shift.
“So,” Charlotte murmurs, bumping my hip with hers while she stirs cocoa. “Lucas.”
I stare at the whipped cream like it contains answers. “I was going to askyouabout that.”
“Quiet, competent, good with creatures,” she says, counting off. “Also: objectively handsome. Try not to lick his biceps.”
“Be serious,” I whisper, then immediately add, “Do not judge me if I trip ‘accidentally’ again.”
She grins. “You’re only here for the weekend.”
“I know.” I swallow, watching him in my peripheral vision. He leans down to scratch Moose’s ears, and Moose groans in bliss. Honestly, same. “Which is perfect for not-complicated, not-messy fun.”
Charlotte hands me a mug. “You don’t do complicated.”
“Rude. Accurate.” I blow on the cocoa and hazard a glance toward the door. He’s looking at me now, like he heard that whole exchange. His mouth tilts.
As dusk slips over the ridge, Asher announces pizza from town. Charlotte cheers. The dogs agree loudly. Lucas offers to pick it up and I blurt, “I can come,” like a middle-schooler choosing a lab partner.
Three sets of eyebrows rise.
I clear my throat. “For, you know, local color. Photo ops. Content.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlotte says, biting back a smile.
