Page 30 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
As we walk away, I ask, "Why two?"
"One for my tree. And one for yours," she says matter-of-factly.
"I don't have a tree."
"Yet." She smiles up at me, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "But that's a problem easily solved."
Before I can protest, she's distracted by the sound of music. A small stage has been set up at the center of the festival where a band plays acoustic versions of Christmas songs. Couples and families sway to the melody under strings of lights crisscrossing overhead.
"Dance with me," Lettie says suddenly.
"I don't dance."
"Everyone dances. You just move your body to the rhythm."
"I meant I don't want to dance."
She studies me, then nods. "Okay. But will you stand with me and listen for a minute? This song is one of my favorites."
It's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," played on acoustic guitar and violin. Not the upbeat version, but the melancholy one that always felt more honest to me.
"I love this version," she says softly. "There's something about acknowledging that holidays can be hard that makes it more meaningful when you choose joy anyway."
Something in her words resonates with me. I've never thought about it that way—that recognizing the pain might be part of finding the joy. I've only ever focused on the pain.
As we stand there, the first snowflakes begin to fall. Lettie notices immediately, tilting her face upward with a smile of pure delight. A flake lands on her eyelash, then another on her cheek.
Without thinking, I reach out to brush it away. My fingers linger on her skin, which is softer than I imagined. Her eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. The crowd, the music, the festival around us fades into background noise.
I lean down toward her, drawn by something I can't explain. Her lips part slightly, her eyes fluttering closed.
Then her phone chirps. Once, twice, a series of rapid notifications. She jerks back, fumbling for it in her pocket.
"Sorry, I should..." She trails off, looking at the screen. Her expression changes, a flash of panic replacing the warmth that was there moments before.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Nothing," she says too quickly, shoving the phone back in her pocket. "Just work stuff."
The same lie from earlier at the tree farm. Her walls are back up, her smile now forced and brittle.
"Lettie."
"It's fine. Really." She glances at her watch. "Actually, our ninety minutes are almost up. We should probably head back."
Whatever moment we were having is gone. I nod, trying to ignore the disappointment that settles in my chest. "Let's go then."
The driveback to Eden Ridge is mostly silent. Lettie stares out the window, occasionally checking her phone with a frown. I want to ask what's bothering her, but after my outburst the other night, I don't feel I have the right to push.
The snow is falling heavily by the time we reach the cabins. I pull up to hers first, and she gathers her things.
"That's odd," she says, peering through the windshield. "My lights should be on. The timer's set for sunset."
I follow her gaze. Her cabin is completely dark, no Christmas lights, no warm glow from the windows. Just darkness.
"Maybe the timer malfunctioned," I suggest.
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced. "Thanks for the ride. And for... coming with me today."
