Page 6 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Sure,” Asher says, deadpan generous. “Local color.”
Lucas holds my coat while I jam my arms in the sleeves, because he’s special like that—polite, thoughtful, inconveniently attractive. When our fingers brush, something sparks, and if this was one of my reels I’d add glitter effects.
In the truck, the heater hums and the roads thread dark through the trees. We make small talk—favorite trail snacks, worst travel story (his: a midnight flight on a cargo plane; mine: an Airbnb with a shower that hissed like a snake). The quiet between answers is comfortable, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with words to prove interest.
“You shoot a lot of rescues?” he asks after a while.
“Any chance I get,” I say. “My followers like all kinds of dogs. I love dogs. If dogs find homes because of it… win-win-win.”
“Good mission,” he says, and he means it. Not a line, not a pat on the head.
“What about you?” I ask. “Back-to-back assignments, or do you get a minute to breathe?”
“Just finished a run,” he says. “Home for a week. Maybe two.”
A week. My brain taps a little calculator: weekend equals 48 hours minus sleep minus pizza equals… bad idea arithmetic. I smile anyway. “Then we’ll put you to work holding reflectors and bribing models.”
“Copy that,” he says, mouth hitching up.
We cross a narrow bridge, lights from the town twinkling ahead like a bowl of stars dumped onto a map. Tomorrow we’ll shoot more, drink too much cocoa, and I’ll pretend I don’t notice the way Lucas watches the world like he’s filed it all by heart.
For tonight: pizza, dogs, and the quiet thrill of maybe. I came to the mountains to breathe. I didn’t plan on the man who catches you before you hit black ice or gets a skittish pup to hold still with a whisper.
I’m only here for the weekend.
But as we roll into town, the crown of the Rockies shining silver in our rearview, I let myself think—just for one reckless heartbeat—that a weekend might be enough to start something.
3
Lucas
I don’t do complicated.
That’s been the guiding principle since I got out—keep it clean, keep it simple, keep it moving. Jobs, miles, the next assignment. Denver is new, and new is good. It means routine. Predictable rotations. Quiet mornings where the mountains look like they were drawn with a pencil and a steady hand.
Then Melanie laughed in my truck on the way to get pizza, and every rule I’ve written for myself got a little fuzzy around the edges.
Back at the cabin, the dogs form a perimeter around the coffee table like a furry security cordon, eyes locked on pepperoni like it’s contraband. Melanie kneels to snap photos of Moose with a slice-shaped plush toy. She makes a high, ridiculous sound that should scare a dog into next week but instead gets Moose to tilt his head and smile like he understands her.
“Look at you,” she coos, clicking away. “A natural star.”
I pretend to focus on plates and napkins, but my attention keeps sliding back to her. She’s got paint on one knuckle from a sign they were touching up earlier, hair scooped into a loose knot that’s come a little undone, wool socks with tiny lightning bolts. She radiates…motion. Even sitting still, she feels like a moving target—in a good way. Alive.
Complicated, my brain reminds me. Saint Pierce complicated. Two flights and a layover complicated. My life is travel, hers is content calendars and adoption drives. Two people heading in two different directions.
“Hey,” Asher says, breaking my looped thought. He nods toward the sliding doors. “Wind’s shifting. Snow by morning.”
I glance outside. He’s right. The air has that metallic edge, sky going from watercolor blue to pewter. “We’ll tarp the woodpile.”
He nods. That’s the thing about working with Asher—you don’t really need to talk to cover the gaps. He and Charlotte claim the loveseat, legs tangled. It’s easy with them. Built on something that held in bad weather.
I load my plate with two slices and sit on the hearth. Melanie drops cross-legged to the rug beside Major, who plops his head in her lap like he’s known her for years. She breaks off a tiny pepperoni, looks at me, then at the dog, then at me again.
“I’m not seeing you,” I deadpan.
“I would never,” she says, and gives Major the treat. He chews with reverence. “Okay, maybe once.”
Charlotte watches us with the look best friends get when they see the match before either party does. I pretend not to notice. I’m good at that.
