Page 27 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
Pumpkin spice and black licorice.
And her.
She’s kneeling by the hearth, setting ceramic pumpkins along the mantle. She doesn’t hear me at first—she’s humming again. Soft this time. Almost sad.
I pause.
She thinks I left for the night, that she’s alone. And without the verbal sparring, the deflection, the glitter armor—she looks different.
She looks… young.
Breakable.
That thought shouldn’t gut me the way it does.
I lean against the doorway and watch.
She lifts a velvet pumpkin and runs her finger over it like it’s something precious. Her shoulders curve inward. Something in her expression flickers—gone too fast to read.
But it leaves a bruise in the air.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I thought you were here for a contest.”
She jumps, spinning toward me. “I—what?”
I nod to the pumpkins. “Looks like more than winning a prize.”
Her throat works. She looks down, then back up. “Maybe I like making things beautiful.”
I fold my arms. “This is a historic fishing lodge. It didn’t need your help.”
She holds my gaze. “Everything needs help sometimes.”
“No,” I say. “Some things survive on their own.”
“And some things don’t survive at all unless someone gives a shit.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Quiet hangs heavy.
The fire pops. Wind moans against the roof. Something raw moves through her expression—and before she can bury it, I see it.
Pain.
Old. Deep. Bone-level.
I don’t ask. I shouldn’t. But I do.
“What happened to you, Aspen?”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she places the pumpkin on the mantle and breathes out.
“My parents died on Halloween.”
The words steal the breath from my chest.
She stares at the fire when she continues. “I was twelve. Drunk driver. On their way home from my uncle’s costume party.” She laughs, brittle. “Imagine that. Some people can’t look at Christmas without crying. For me? It’s pumpkins and candy corn.”
