Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

ROWAN

“You asked Harry to come?” Oliver asks. There’s a weird expression on his face, like he’s not sure whether to be pissed or pleased by my failure to mention that until this exact moment. We’re standing at the tail end of my truck in the lot of Ralph’s Trees, Oliver having parked his Subaru across from me. He rubs his goatee thoughtfully. “Does he know I’m going to be here?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He said he was looking forward to it.”

To be fair, he looked like he was going to shit his pants while he said it, but Harry looks like that about a quarter of the time. I’ve never met someone so tightly wound. He’s a good guy, though—a solid guy—and dating Oliver might mellow him out.

I mentally curse myself. I can practically see Holly giving me a knowing look, saying something like the matchmaking apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Goddammit, maybe she’s right.

“He did, huh?” Oliver says with a slight smile on his face. “Have you noticed he’s been avoiding me since he moved into your place?”

I can’t say that I have, to be honest, but I’ve been told before that subtext needs to hit me in the face with a two-by-four before I pick up on it.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling. “When I came over to borrow some tools last week, he practically dive-bombed into his room. I’m surprised he didn’t break his nose.”

“Huh. Should I not have asked him?” I ask, scratching my nose. This isn’t going very well. So much for having matchmaking blood. The only other time I’ve tried to set two people up was Oliver and my sister, Willow, and given that he’s gay and she’s engaged to a writer, you can see how well that turned out. I make a mental note to never try anything this stupid again.

“No,” he says thoughtfully. “If he knows I’m here, it’s fine.”

“Um, is this where I should ask if something happened between you two,” I say.

He laughs in my face. “Shit, Rowan, you’re really bad at this.”

“I’m trying. Does that count?”

“Sure,” he says. “But we don’t need to talk about this, man. I can’t remember the last time you told me about any of the women you’re dating.”

“Wait, you’re dating him?”

“I’m obviously not doing a very good job of it if he’s dive-bombing out of rooms to get away from me.”

I tilt my head. “But you want to date him.”

“Undecided,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “I find his neuroticism charming, but I’d prefer to date a man who can stand being in the same room as me.”

I feel like I should press him for details—I know my sisters would—but truthfully, I’d rather not. After all, he might decide to press me for details, and I have a whole lot of nothing to share. The last time I brought a woman home, my sister nearly hit me over the head with a baseball bat, for fuck’s sake. That’s not an experience I’d like to repeat.

I tell myself that’s why I’ve been on a dating and hookup drought—my sister is cock-blocking me. Truthfully, though, she’s hardly been around. I have to acknowledge that part of the problem is that I’m bored of meaningless sex with tourists who’ll only be in Highland Hills for the weekend or a week, and the last local woman I arranged a date with gave her number to someone else in my presence.

Holly says I’m too much of a grump.

Bryn and Willow tell me I’m emotionally unavailable.

My baby sister, Ivy, probably has a fucking opinion too, but she keeps herself too busy writing romance novels to bother much with the rest of us. Or maybe she just has the sense to stay away.

“What’s got you all broody?” Oliver asks, nudging my shoulder.

“Christmas,” I say. “The mayor’s paying me to string lights on his house this year. He told me, unironically, that he wants it to look the house in Christmas Vacation .”

He clucks his tongue. “Make sure you do it when he’s not there. He could talk the ear off a dead person. The last thing you need is to go tumbling off the ladder because he’s chatting you up about the recycling schedule.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the hot tip. I don’t want to go out stringing Christmas lights.”

“I dunno. It’d be an ironic way for a grinch to go out.”

I lift a hand and gesture at the pine trees on display, the log cabin where people can buy hot chocolate or cider. Canned Christmas music is piping from somewhere. “Would a grinch come here?”

“Yes,” he says, slapping my arm. “Absolutely. He’d come here, and he’d steal all of it to keep other people from making merry.”

Another car pulls in as he finishes saying it. It’s Harry’s Prius, and I can see his beanie-clad head in the front seat.

“He thinks he’s hauling a tree home on that thing?” Oliver asks with a laugh.

“He’s not allowed to get one for the Labelles’,” I say, thinking of Kennedy and the wistful look on her face when she said the Labelles’ house was the one place Christmas would miss this year. Shit. Maybe I should send a pine bough home with Harry, except she’d probably interpret it as a taunt. Maybe she’d be right. Maybe not. I don’t have time to consider it, because Harry’s parking, and my lips part with surprise when the back door of the car cracks open.

She’s wearing a beanie and large sunglasses, but it’s her—my princess. I instantly correct myself for the absurd thought—she isn’t my anything. It is her, though. She doesn’t have the kind of face a person can forget, with her long, dark hair, big blue eyes, and small, pointed chin. I’m not saying I want her. I’m saying what’s obvious: she’s beautiful. My mother was a beautiful woman, too, and she used her beauty as a weapon, taking down one man after another—using him up and then moving on. I know not to let good looks blind me.

Still, she’s the kind of gorgeous that hurts, and I’d be an imbecile if I didn’t notice. It would be like failing to notice that the sun has risen over the mountains.

“She’s not supposed to be here,” I say, lifting a hand to my jaw.

Harry gets out of the driver’s seat, practically humming with nervous energy, and herds Kennedy toward us.

“Didn’t know this was going to be a prison break,” I say as I nod to them in greeting. Oliver stands up from where he was leaning against the truck, his gaze on Harry, whose cheeks have turned red.

Yup, something definitely happened between them.

Kennedy wraps an arm around Harry’s back and squeezes before letting her arm drop. “Harry knows I’ve been missing Christmas, so he was sweet enough to ask me to come along.”

“It’s been a while,” Oliver says to Harry. “Why don’t we go inside and get some hot choco—”

“No dairy for me,” Harry says. “No dairy for Harry.” Then he lifts a hand to his mouth. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Because it rhymes, and it’s funny,” Kennedy says encouragingly.

If she says so.

“There’s cider too,” Oliver says, seemingly not put off by my roommate’s verbal missteps.

“And whiskey,” I say, because if ever there were ever an occasion for a drink…

“You want to drink whiskey before you use an ax?” Kennedy asks, her tone a little judgmental if you ask me.

“Yes, Princess,” I say. “I’m an ax-toting lumberjack. I’m the person the Christmas trees have nightmares about at night. Should you really be seen out here? Won’t Harry get fired if you are?”

Harry removes his hat and scrubs a hand through his short hair. “You wouldn’t tell your grandmother, would you?”

Kennedy’s giving me a look as dark as if I just shot an uppercut into Santa’s jaw and suggested serving up his reindeer as venison.

“I try to talk to her as little as possible,” I tell Harry. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Then, to Kennedy, I say, “Just keep your hat and the glasses on.”

She’s unlikely to get recognized anyway. Her photo hasn’t been released to the press yet. And yet…

I don’t really want her to put the full princess effect on display. I’m not sure I can handle it, on top of whatever Oliver–Harry drama is going on.

“Well, okay,” Oliver says, as if he’s the one normal person in this sea of awkwardness. Actually, I think he is the one normal person in this sea of awkwardness. “Let’s get some drinks—” his gaze goes to Harry, who looks down, “—of whatever variety we choose, and we can go check out the trees. Rowan was saying you guys can’t bring one back to the Labelles’?”

“No, but we were thinking we could watch,” Harry says.

You want to watch us chop down trees?” I ask in disbelief.

“I’ve never seen someone chop down a tree before,” Kennedy says staunchly, lifting her jaw slightly.

Well, I believe that.

“Used to having other people do your dirty work for you?”

“What is your problem ?” she hisses, and I have to admit, that was a bit harsh. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean it.

Oliver smirks at me. “Do you have a notepad? Because it might be a long list. Cupid here isn’t known for his cheerfulness.”

“Cupid?” she asks, with too much enthusiasm for my taste.

“Cupid,” he confirms with a twinkle in his eye, the jackass. “It’s been his nickname since we were kids. You know, because the rest of the Mayberrys are such dyed-in-the-wool romantics.”

“I don’t like it when people call me that,” I growl.

“We shouldn’t call him that then,” Harry says, surprising me with his instant support. “I hate it when people call me Twitch, but my cousin George does it at every family gathering. Of course, it only makes me more anxious, and then I actually do—” His eyes go wide, and he looks at me and blurts, “You said there’d be caroling. I’m always up for some good caroling.”

“Do you sing?” Oliver asks as we all start to walk toward the log cabin.

“In the shower,” Harry says, then stammers. “I mean. I only sing in the shower because I don’t want anyone to have to listen to me.”

“Harry has a beautiful voice,” Kennedy says.

“You hang out outside his bathroom?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows.

“Wouldn’t that mean I was outside your bathroom?” she asks.

She said it as a challenge, definitely not some kind of invitation, but my mind flashes to taking a shower with her . What she would look like in the shower, with the hot water coursing down her slick body, her beautiful long, dark hair loose, her—

I trip on some gravel, and suddenly I’m face down in the parking lot, gravel scraping my nose and forehead. Fuck. It hurts, and worse, I’m incredibly aware of Kennedy having watched the whole thing.

“Shit, are you okay, Rowan?” Oliver asks, reaching down for me.

I stand up without accepting his hand and brush off the gravel, annoyed at myself. “I’m fine.”

But Harry’s not the only one who’s red now.

Kennedy takes a step toward me, her hand reaching up to my cheek. Her fingers brush my skin so lightly, it should barely be felt, but I do feel it. “You’re bleeding,” she says in a low voice.

“I’m fine,” I say, “nothing worse than I’d get shaving.”

“You have a beard,” she says, her lips tipping into a slight smile.

I can’t help smiling back, because her smile is like the sun, warming the things it touches. “I hate shaving.”

Then, because Oliver is giving me a you’re being really fucking rude frown, I add, “Thank you.”

We resume our trek toward the cabin, none of us speaking again, because my faceplant only made things more uncomfortable.

Ralph himself, a big man with red cheeks that suggest he’s been enjoying plenty of his spiked cider, opens the door. He’s dressed up like Santa Claus, probably wearing the same coat and beard he used when I was a kid.

“Ho, ho, ho, welcome to Ralph’s,” he says, waving us in.

“Hey, Ralph,” Oliver says.

“Don’t destroy the illusion for the newcomers,” he says, winking at Kennedy.

“Yes, Ralph.” I roll my eyes. “This thirty-year-old woman thinks you’re Santa Claus.”

I can feel her eyes on me again as she says, “Hey, I’m only twenty-nine. And I hope I’ll never be too old for Christmas magic.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ralph says, his delight over-effusive.

The interior has a dusty fake Christmas tree with dozens of empty wrapped boxes underneath, an ax station, and a drink bar in the corner that’s brightly decorated with Christmas lights and a sign reading “Ho-ho-ho-hot chocolate.” Like everything else, it’s seen better years, and that’s why I like it. It’s nice to have some things stay the same when the world keeps changing around you, pulling away the things you thought you knew.

“Do you want anything?” I ask Kennedy.

“I can order my own drink,” she says stiffly.

“Actually,” Harry says, still holding his beanie, “you can’t. We couldn’t risk retrieving your wallet from the office, remember?”

“Oh,” she says, biting her lip, and the sight of her white teeth flashing against her plump, pink bottom lip sends blood pumping directly to my dick.

Damn it. My dick would choose to react to a woman I definitely can’t have and almost certainly don’t want.

“I’ll take a hot chocolate.”

“How about you?” Oliver asks Harry.

“I have my wallet,” Harry says stiffly. “So no need to worry about me. Or Kennedy! I’ll buy Kennedy’s drink too.”

Oliver shrugs. I shrug.

“I have emergency cash,” she tells him. “You don’t need to buy me anything.”

“I insist,” he says.

My friend orders a coffee, black. I get spiced cider with a splash of whiskey, and if I partly did it because I have a weird impulse to do the opposite of impressing Kennedy, then so be it.

They’re up next, and Oliver gives his head an amused shake when Harry pointedly asks if the spiced cider has dairy in it before ordering some for himself. Kennedy gets a hot chocolate, and the look of joy on her face when she sees the mountain of whipped cream that gets put on top before the lid is applied is cuter than it has any right to be. If this place is less impressive than what she’s used to, and I’m guessing it would have to be, it doesn’t show. She seems as delighted as a seven-year-old child holding her father’s hand and jumping up and down, eager to see a tree get murdered.

Once we’ve acquired our drinks, Oliver and I approach the ax station, where Ethel, Ralph’s wife, is waiting. She resembles Mrs. Claus, with her snowy white hair gathered into a bun and her red house dress, but it would be a mistake to think this is a costume. She looks the same year-round.

“Gonna get a good one, boys?” she asks, beaming at us. “I still have those pictures of you from last year, Rowan.”

“You were here last year?” Kennedy asks in surprise.

“Oh, he comes in nearly every year,” Ethel says, being far too chatty for my taste.

“Not for myself,” I say quickly, instantly annoyed with myself for feeling the need to explain. Despite what Holly and Oliver implied the other day, I do actually like this place. I’ve liked it ever since Jay, my one-time stepfather, used to bring me here to chop down a tree with him. My own father never bothered to do that sort of thing, but Jay was a good man. The only stand-up guy to fall within my mother’s clutches. He’s my sister Ivy’s father, so I still see him every now and then, usually when she’s passing through town. He invites me to do things sometimes. Go hiking. Watch a documentary about something we both enjoy, like ice fishing, but I usually don’t take him up on it. I feel the weight of knowing that he might feel obligated to spend time with me. “I always come and get one for one of my sisters.”

“Your grandmother?” Harry asks.

“No,” I scoff. “She’d sooner drink the blood of Santa Claus than put up a real tree.”

Ethel scowls at me. “Oh, you.” Turning to Oliver, she says, “Nice to see you again, sweetheart. Good of you to come instead of your father. He’s always complaining about his back.”

Oliver gives a slight nod, choosing not to tell her what very few people know yet. His father has Stage Three cancer, which is why he came back to this shit hole.

“How about you folks?” she asks, beaming at Kennedy and Harry. “What a nice-looking couple you are.”

“Oh, no. We’re not…” Harry starts, then swallows. “I’m not… I mean, if I were, she’d be on my top five list, obviously. Maybe top two list, but…”

Ethel eyes him strangely. “Are you going to cut down a tree or not?”

“Not,” he says. “We’re here to watch the carolers.”

“You’re out of luck. They all came down with food poisoning,” she says, shaking her head. “I told them not to trust anything Draper Hiddleston made for them, but did they listen? They scarfed down those cookies he brought in like no one’s business, and every last one of them spent the night in the bathroom.” She shrugs. “But we’re piping Christmas music out back, and you’re welcome to take photos with the sleigh. There’s a life-sized model of Santa in it.”

“Thanks,” Kennedy says, seeming to mean it. “That sounds wonderful.”

It’s not. The sleigh’s been there since I was a kid, and the Santa, which used to be animatronic but stopped working about a decade ago, is probably a health hazard at this point.

“Well, you lot have fun,” Ethel says, but something in her gaze tells me she finds our grouping weird and will be talking about it to other people. The more people who talk about it, the more likely it is that my grandmother or one of the producers will put two and two together.

Not good for Harry. Or Kennedy.

I shouldn’t care about that. I want that show to crash and burn. I need it to. But Holly’s right about one thing—Harry’s a good roommate—and I also don’t want Kennedy to get in trouble. None of this has been about getting her into trouble.

Which is why I say, “Harry’s my roommate, Ethel. That’s why he doesn’t need a tree.” I clear my throat. “And this is my friend,” I add, setting my drink on the counter and putting an arm around Kennedy’s back. She jolts like a shying horse but doesn’t throw me off. Still, she seems about as into it as if Ralph had wrapped one of his ham-hock arms around her.

“She’s just here for the weekend,” I say with a pasted-on smile.

I put the right amount of insinuation behind it, and Ethel grins. “Say no more.”

Which is exactly why I did it. Two strangers acting weird with Rowan Mayberry and Oliver Perez might be worth some gossip on a slow afternoon, but if one of them is Rowan’s flavor of the week? Who cares.

I drop my grip on Kennedy, and we all head outside after Oliver and I grab our axes and work gloves, juggling them with our to-go drink cups.

As soon as the door closes behind us, Kennedy turns to look at me, her brow wrinkled. Fuck me. She’s a knockout like this too. It’s like she can’t help herself. Everything she does has to be beautiful and graceful, even if it’s being pissed off.

“What was that all about?” she asks coldly, staring me down even though I’m several inches taller than her. She’s not small for a woman, though. Five eight or five nine, easy.

“Ethel likes to gossip,” I say.

“So why did you give her something to gossip about?” she asks through her teeth, clearly unhappy with me. It probably doesn’t speak well of me that I find her reaction slightly amusing.

“I did it for your sake, Princess. You should be thanking me.”

The nickname was the wrong thing to say, because her glower deepens. Actually, no one seems to be looking at me kindly right now.

“Ethel likes to talk,” Oliver says, waving his cup. “Two strangers, one of them Rowan’s roommate who works on Matchmaking the Rich …”

“So why’d you tell her that we live together?” Harry asks, his eyebrows winging up in a dramatic mask of alarm.

“It would be worse if she found out from someone else,” I say. “This way it looks like we have nothing to hide. Like Kennedy here’s a tourist who’s in town for one weekend, not the runaway bachelorette.”

“That’s the wrong show,” Harry says, but it seems like a rote response. “Huh. You might have a point.”

“Of course I do,” I say. My gaze shifts to Kennedy, but if I was hoping for an apology or a thank you, I’ll be waiting a while. She still seems pissed.

“Won’t it be worse if they discover who I am? You just implied that I’m…” Her cheeks flush, and I feel a swell of something.

You’re not attracted to her. You’re not attracted to her.

“Some kind of strumpet,” she finishes.

“Strumpet?” I say, my lips turning up.

It would be incredibly stupid for me to hit on Kennedy Littlefield for real. Setting aside the whole princess thing, she’s the lead contestant on a dating show my grandmother is running. And I’m friendly with her brother, who would probably be less than pleased with me.

“Who are you? The Queen of England?” I ask.

“Come on, Harry,” she says, her gaze still on me from behind those big glasses. “Let’s go check out that sleigh.”

“You might not want to get on there,” I say. “It’s been sitting out here for at least three decades.”

“Then it’s a year older than me,” she says pointedly, as if I’m an ass for not knowing her exact age. How was I supposed to? It’s not like she has her birthdate tattooed on her arm.

“All right, have at it,” I say, lifting my to-go cup in a cheers.

She’s already walking away, Harry at her side. He glances back with a little regret in his eyes, as if he’s not so sure he wants to get on a sleigh that old but feels the need to be loyal.

“You sure have a way with women,” Oliver says with a chuckle.

“You sure have a way with men.”

He nudges me with his shoulder and laughs. “Touché. Want to go chop down some trees?”

I grunt. “Yes, please.”