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Had to get an early start on the day. Some good news on the heater front. Might be getting it earlier than I expected. Maybe you won’t have to spend Christmas with a Scrooge like me after all.
I made a frittata. Yes, mountain me love frittatas. It’s in the oven keeping warm. Dasher’s been fed and he’s been out. He wanted to come with me but I had to put my foot down.
Looking forward to another movie tonight. My turn to pick though. I’ll give you a hint. There’ll be enough action to keep you awake this time.
Nick
P. S. You mentioned wanting to get a tree. I know just the place. I’ll meet you back at the cabin at 2pm.
I can’t help but smile as I read the note a few more times, skipping the first paragraph of course. When I take the frittata out of the oven and give it a taste, I’m in heaven. My mountain man knows how to cook.
Whoa.My mountain man? I’m getting way too far ahead of myself. I hardly know anything about this man. But I think I know someone who might. Looks like I better save room for a little more Mistletoe Madness. Peppermint bark too.
* * *
“Nick as in Nick Becker?Are you sure you’re spending Christmas with him?”
I sigh as my first sip of Quinn’s amazing Christmas concoction hits me just as hard as it did yesterday.
“I think so? He works with Juliet and Aiden.” I set my drink down. “I don’t know his last name but he’s as big as a house. Long, wavy chestnut hair. A beard so thick that birds and squirrels dream of nesting in it. Muscles like you’ve never seen.”
I go on and on and on describing Nick to Quinn as she sits there, quietly taking it all in until I finally finish.
“We’re going to pick out a Christmas tree together.”
Quinn blinks at me, opens her mouth, and then closes it again. After breaking off a piece of peppermint bark and carefully chewing it for a few beats, she says, “I don’t know what to say.”
I press my eyebrows into a thin line. “What do you mean?”
“Nick is the biggest Scrooge in the town. Are you sure this isn’t a setup? It wouldn’t surprise me if he ended up burning the tree down once you guys get it back to the cabin.”
I blow a raspberry with my lips. “No… he wouldn’t do that. Right?” I add as Quinn stares at me blankly.
“No,” she says, a faraway look on her face. “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” she adds in the least convincing voice I’ve heard, finally shaking herself out of it.
I sigh. “I know it seems crazy, but I think I might be making some progress. I think by the end of this he mightlikeChristmas.”
Quinn blinks at me as she sips her drink. “Anything’s possible,” she says, setting her mug down. “Christmas miracles are real after all. But this one might be pushing it.”
The bell at the front of the cafe rings and Quinn’s gaze turns to it.
“Juliet’s here,” she says.
She wanted to meet me in person to apologize for the miscommunication. Halfway down the mountain, I received a slew of missed calls, voicemails, and texts from her apologizing. Nick was supposed to be leaving the night before I arrived. The rental would’ve been cleaned the following day with everything prepared for my arrival with my match. But once he canceled—or, more precisely, the eggnog canceled him—her husband thought I was out, so he let Nick know that he could stay as long as he needed to.
He didn’t know that I’d communicated with Juliet about coming to the cabin after all. I had so many fun festivities planned and she might be able to find me a last-minute match. Or at the very least, someone I could spend Christmas with so I wouldn’t be completely alone.
“I amsosorry, Eva,” Juliet says as a way of greeting. She slides her purse onto the empty chair next to us before unloading her scarf, gloves, and hat neatly on top.
“It’s fine. I mean it.”
“No, it’s not. This is not how I run my business. How can I make it up to you?” She looks at Quinn as though she just realized she’s there. “Quinn!”
She stands up and they hug, quickly chatting about something before they both sit down.
“No, really,” I say when Juliet turns back to me. “It’s not that big of a deal. Nick’s going to pick out a Christmas tree with me later.”
And for the second time today, I see another blank face staring back at me. “But he hates everything to do with Christmas,” she says, more as a statement of fact than a retort. “I don’t see why he—” Her eyes flare. “Actually, that’s great. Mistletoe Madness?” She asks, pointing to the cup in front of me.
