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He’s harmless.

Usually.

Last night’s wife auction proves he occasionally becomes useful after his fourth drink.

I pull into Dawson Lodge at eight the next morning and find Lila on a ladder.

I groan.

Snow covers the ground. Ice hangs from the gutters. It’s twenty-three degrees.

And Lila Dawson is six feet off the ground in pink gloves trying to fix a crooked Christmas wreath.

I get out of my truck. “Get down.”

She looks over her shoulder. Her expression changes to annoyance immediately.

That’s one of the things I like about her. “Good morning to you too.”

“The ladder’s on ice.”

“Thank you, Dane. I hadn’t noticed the winter.”

“Get down.”

“No.”

I walk toward her.

She goes back to fighting with the wreath.

“Lila.”

“Dane.”

“You fall, you’re going to break something.”

“You ordering me around isn’t making me want to come down.”

“I can fix that.”

“How?”

I grab her around the waist.

She squeals as I lift her straight off the ladder.

“Dane!”

I set her boots on the ground. She spins around and shoves both hands against my chest.

I don’t move.

Her eyes narrow. “Do not manhandle me.”

“You were six feet up.”

“I was fine.”