Page 9 of The Christmas Mittens
“There are no bees flying around this time of year,” Franny fired back.
“I…what?” I asked, but the others dove into the discussion, saving me from trying to decipher Franny’s reply. To my credit, I did put up a valiant battle, but by the time we were all heading home, I’d somehow been elected—forced seemed a better word to me, but the knitting club felt elected was the proper terminology—to venture out to Kerry Run to do a wellness check on a toothy baby who ate mittens.
How I got wrangled into these things, I did not know. Katie had always said I was a pushover when it came to kids, dogs, and pretty faces. Guess she was right. She generally had been.
Chapter Five
Friday, December 11
I’d put it off as long as I dared. Gilda had been on the bus and probably heading to homeroom, and here I sat, staring at my bologna and cheese sandwich like it held the answers to the riddles of the Sphinx.
Did I dare drive out to Kerry Run to snoop on the man who had invaded my dreams last night? Naughty dreams. Very naughty. I’d not come awake with wet sleep pants for so long that it took me a blurry moment to grasp what had happened. When I did the math, I huffed in aggravation at myself. Seriously, a man edging up on forty should not be having wet dreams. Sure, it had been years of celibacy, and yes, Prada Man was sexy and mysterious, but a little restraint had to be shown. Miss Marple never had to change her bloomers over a handsome bloke she was observing. The residents of St. Mary Mead would have been appalled at such a thing. And since I was now playing the role of an elderly British amateur sleuth, I needed to maintain some decorum for the good people of Grouse Falls to comment on over high tea.
“All right, you’re really getting too far into this,” I muttered to myself, tossed back my coffee, and stuffed my sandwich into a baggie. I did the morning dishes, checked the windows and back door, then climbed into my cold Subaru. All the while my head was whirling. Did I dare just make a jaunt out to the campgrounds to check on that generous, gorgeous donor? “Stop. Do not think of him as gorgeous. Gorgeous just makes your dick hard. That is not allowed. I’m sure there is a rule in the detective handbook about erections while sleuthing.”
Once the car was warm and my libido cool, I set off for the shop. I purposefully didn’t allow anything other than the jobs I had to complete today to enter my mind. There was snow in the forecast, not a lot, but enough that people would like to have their equipment in their sheds. That meant I was working all day on several snowblowers that had been brought in for maintenance. There was no time to sneak off to spy on someone just living his life. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I should stick my nose in his life.
The only thing that was making me waver was the possibility of a baby in a ratty tent facing snow and temperatures in the low twenties for the next however long they were camping. As a father, worry over that precious babe was eating at me, but so was the knowledge that the man deserved his privacy. Still, a child was involved, so despite my misgivings, I would have to make a trip out. Maybe over the weekend. Saturday was a busy day, but Sunday I could get up early and pretend I was just out there doing what?
Jogging? Skiing? Ice skating?
“Well shit,” I snarled as I pulled into my little parking area. With a huff, I dropped the car into Park, cut the engine, and stared at my tiny shop for several minutes, the only sound the ticking of the engine cooling and my breathing. Yes, I would go out on Sunday. I’d make up some sort of convincing lie aboutwhy I was there. Birdwatching seemed to be the best option as I didn’t own skis, skates, or running shoes. Ididhave Dad’s old binoculars. There. The cover story was in place. Just call me Hercule Poirot minus the snazzy mustache and Belgian accent.
***
Right at noon, I began listening for the bells.
Silly of me, I know. What kind of foolish ninny spent his lunch hour with his ear peeled for the jingly announcement of a good-looking stranger entering his shop? Me. I was the ninny. And I scolded myself over and over as I washed up in the cramped bath off the workshop. After tossing some short chunks of maple into the stove, I sat down and opened the lunch bag that Gilda had crocheted for me last year for Christmas. I loved it. Not only because my girl had spent hours with Franny working on it but because it was so darn practical. Also, it was bright and happy, crafted out of bright yellow and blue yarn. Opening up a paper towel I’d packed to serve as a placemat, I spread out my meal with care, my ear perked like a dog waiting for the mailman to arrive. One sandwich, one bag of cheese chips, and a can of lemon-lime soda. Dessert was a snack cake. I should have grabbed an apple, but I was too nerved-up about the upcoming sneak-and-peek out at the campgrounds. It was a flimsy excuse, but I was sticking to it.
I’d just finished my sandwich and was chewing on a chip when the bells rang out. I shot to my work boots, swallowed hard, and wiped the cheese dust from the chips on my pants. I squared my shoulders and pushed through the curtain. There he stood, red-cheeked, with a bike helmet under his arm, plucking tiny mittens from my line. I’d been making them as fast as I could, and he kept taking them.
“Morning, Mr…” I let it dangle as I moved around the counter to greet him with an open hand to shake. “I didn’t catch your name. Sorry.”
His dark eyes roamed over me slowly before he slid his cold hand into mine. I must have made a sound, for he instantly apologized.
“Forgive my cold hands. I rode down from the woods this morning for some exercise.” He held onto my hand with his right as he waved his helmet at the mountain bike resting against the frosty windowpane.
“You rode that far this morning?” I was floored. It had to be easily ten miles or more from the campgrounds, and it was a brisk fifteen degrees outside. No sun as the snow clouds had started to move in, thickening in warning as the day went on.
“Yes, it was rather invigorating.” He smiled, his fingers still gripping my hand. Probably I should shake free. It had been far too long for a normal hetero handshake, but here we were holding hands. Neither of us seemed to be in any hurry. “I’m used to the cold. Where I come from, it gets very cold and we get some snow on the highest peaks of our little nation, so this is not so bad.”
“Where is it that you come from?” I asked, feeling myself growing flustered the longer we stood here like this. Finally, he released my hand. I tucked it under my armpit to warm back up.
“A small country island just off the northern tip of Denmark. You’ve not heard of it, I’m sure.”
“I thought I detected a Nordic accent.” He nodded proudly, brown and red curls bouncing. “My wife had family from that area. Norway, to be precise. What is your nation called?”
“Östermon. It’s a small country of about twenty-five thousand at the last census.” He was right, I’d never heard of it, but I planned to break out my Google-foo as soon as he pedaled histight ass back to the campgrounds. “And as for my name, it’s Anders.”
“Mitchell,” I replied, happy to have us on a first-name basis. “So, Anders, are you here for more mittens?”
“I am, yes. She dislikes the cold a great deal but dislikes the mittens even more.” He chuckled softly and held up the mittens he had taken from the line. “Thank you for keeping us so well stocked.”
“My pleasure.” I beamed and got a look that sent hot jolts of lust racing through me. I could stand here and look at him all day. Dreamy didn’t even begin to touch on just how sexy this single daddy from an unknown island off the coast of—then it hit me. “Where is your baby?”
“Oh, she’s back at the camper. I’m heading back now but wanted to stop and visit with you, Mitchell. You’re a kind and generous man with a loving heart and dimples that make me a little woozy.”
He liked my dimples? With that, he gave me a slow smile, turned, and went to the jar to drop in his daily donation. “Until tomorrow, Mitchell.”
