Zelda barks, weaving her way around my legs, likesnap out of it, Mom.
His eyes follow mine, up to that star-shaped hook. Then he quickly moves deeper into the cabin and shuts the door.
“How are the animals?” Bent at the waist, I scratch Zelda behind her cold ears.
“Pissed. Hungry. But alive.” He’s business as usual as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a thick thermal shirt. He shakes off the snow, then hangs his jacket on a hook. Looks at me with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m decorating.” I crunch the end of the candy cane.
“You ain’t serious.” He rubs his palm across his sharp jaw and peers over my head, sapphire eyes scanning the snow globes scattered across the fireplace mantel.
I tilt my chin at the unhappiness in his voice. “Has anyone ever told you, you lack Christmas spirit?”
“Just the ghost of my past.” He takes off his Stetson and drops it on the entry table.
“What’s with you?” How is it possible that he suddenly dislikes Christmas? First the music, now the decorations. “You’ve always been a sucker for a good nativity scene. And now you’re acting like you’ve been possessed by the Grinch.”
“Yeah, well, first time for everything.”
“Deal with it. I’m decorating.” I give a little shrug. “Especially because you stole my Christmas.”
Hank emits a derisive snort. “Stole’s a little dramatic, ain’t it, Bluebell?”
With a roll of my eyes, I twist, twirling the piece of garland off my shoulders. I press up on tiptoes and weave the faux pine strands between the snow globes.
“That’ll burn.” Hank’s deep voice carries. The floorboards vibrate beneath his boots as he moves closer, crowds my space.
“No, it won’t.” I pull away from him and peer up at his handsome face, at the deep and serious frown. Whiskers shadow his jaw, his skin still tan from the summer sun. “It never has before.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Bell, it will.” Sighing, he reaches around me and tugs the garland down. Then he tosses it onto the leather couch. “You got the fire goin’ too hard. Last thing I need is to worry about you and the cabin burnin’ down.”
As he crouches and fusses with the logs, I back away, arms crossed, frustrated and wishing I was alone.
I’m supposed to be channeling my inner Monet while I’m here. I’m supposed to be having girl dinner and crying into mywine. Nursing hot cocoa and watching rom-coms. Not fighting with my ex while simultaneously fighting the urge to count each and every snowflake in that whiskery scruff of his.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I mutter.
He stands, the big, stiff line of his body twisting toward me.
“I always worry about you.” The words are a heated huff as he storms into the kitchen.
My stomach flips over. I don’t know what to make of that statement. I just know I like it. Too much.
Hands propped on my hips, I study him, befuddled by the man. The only thing more frigid than the Montana air? Hank Blue’s cold shoulder.
’Tis the season for a grumpy cowboy, apparently.
“There’s still coffee,” I offer kindly. But only because I want something from him.
He pours himself a cup, then chops a hunk of zucchini bread. All the while, the wind continues to gust outside, making the cabin vibrate and groan. He eats the sweet treat with a lifted brow, his smug gaze on me, but says nothing.
I blush at having been caught eating his food.
He swallows, then sighs, long and loud. “What do you want, Bell?”
I tug at a lock of hair. Am I really that obvious? “I need help.”
“With what?”
