Page 157 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

I knocked and Clover opened the door almost immediately wearing fuzzy socks covered in Christmas trees.

I looked down. Then back up at her smiling face. “You need help.”

“I need joy.”

“It’s eighty degrees.”

“Inside it's cold.” She stepped aside, the house smelled like garlic, rosemary, and something roasting. Hunter appeared from the kitchen holding a wooden spoon in his left hand.

“Hey Carson.” He smiled, not hiding his prosthetics like he usually did at the ranch.

“Hey.”

He looked more relaxed here than I had ever seen him around town. His shoulders sat lower. His expression was softer. The scar tissue along the right side of his face seemed less noticeable without strangers nearby trying not to stare at it. His prosthetic arm was attached, and his prosthetic leg was visible beneath shorts.

Nothing hidden.

Just him.

“I poured us some wine.” Clover took my purse and tossed it onto a chair. “I hope you like it sweet!” She giggled as Hunter turned back toward the kitchen.

“She’s already had a glass.”

Clover followed him with a goofy grin. “Traitor.”

I laughed and walked inside. The house surprised me, but I wasn’t sure why.

Maybe because Willow Creek had spent years referring to Hunter as the recluse before Clover bulldozed her way into his life, and some part of me still expected his home to look like a dark cabin full of military memorabilia and emotional damage.

Instead, there were a lot of books, plants, a ridiculously comfortable-looking sectional, and framed photographs that were of Clover and Hunter. Some were with the Jones family, and there was only one from what looked like their wedding. Hunter stood beside Clover in a dark suit, his prosthetic arm visible beneath a rolled sleeve because apparently he had made no effort to conceal it. Clover wore a simple white dress and looked happier than anyone had a right to look in a photograph.

I slowed and Hunter noticed, mostly because he noticed everything. I figured it had to do with his military training.

Clover appeared carrying three glasses before he could say anything.

Hunter returned to whatever he was cooking.

“Did Beau tell you he almost set the festival lights on fire yesterday?” Clover situated herself on the sectional. I blinked slowly in surprise at her question, then started to laugh.

“No. How did that happen?”

This was easy. That was what surprised me.

We ate dinner at the kitchen island because Clover said the dining table existed only for Christmas and formal events. Hunter made roast chicken with potatoes and vegetables. Clover had contributed bread, because apparently she considered reheating something from Sugar and Pine equal participation.

The conversation wandered from the festival, June’s increasingly aggressive seasonal menu, Rosie and Jax arguing about the tavern’s outdoor lighting, Walter refusing to stay retired, to Meme sending Clover soup recipes with half the ingredients missing because, according to Meme, “good cooks know what belongs.”

At some point, Clover showed me pictures from last Christmas.

There were hundreds.

Hunter standing beside a twelve-foot tree looking mildly horrified. Clover in matching pajamas with Margaret. Walter asleep beneath a blanket covered in reindeer. Beau wearing a Santa hat with the expression of a hostage.

I laughed hard enough that Clover immediately sent the picture to me.

“For blackmail purposes obviously,” she snickered.

“I like you.”