“Are you goingto work?” she said.
Something flashed across his face—guilt?—before it returned to his studied neutral.
“No, I mean, yes. I’m helping my father with something while I’m in town.”
It occurred to her what that “thing” probably was, and anger once again roiled up to chase away melancholy like the sun burning fog off the mountains.
She crossed one arm over the other and stared him straight in the eye. “Helping him negotiate the best price for the festival?”
The flash of guilt—yes, it was definitely guilt—returned. “So, you heard about that…”
“Yeah,my momdidn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.”
If the frost in the air between them could have spread, it would’ve brought on the white holiday the town so desperately needed.
“It isn’t an easy subject to bring up, and our conversation came to a bit of a halt,” he said.
“It didn’t occur to you that maybe playing buddy-buddy with someone whose family you’re plotting against is a bit gauche?”
His tone was stiff. “I was being polite.”
Being polite. Of course. He was infallibly mannered, and it was the only reason he’d suffered her presence. The realization was sharp.
She tipped up her chin to look him straight in the eye. “That winter festival is the heart of Elk Ridge. This place would’ve died out decades ago without it.”
“Which is exactly why it needs something to give it a new life.” He gestured at the shuttered Book Chalet. “Everyone trying to keep the festival alive is bleeding money—including your parents.”
That gave Rowan pause—bleeding money? Her mother hadn’t brought that up. The festival had not been designed to profit, but it still had operating costs. If it wasn’t even making that much, then the situation was even worse than Liliana had let on.
Gavin continued, “Your mother won’t consider raising prices on anything—concessions, booth costs—”
She balled a fist. “Because that would price out the local vendors who’ve been with us for years!”
His forehead creased in frustration. “No one is suggesting that we double them, but good intentions can’t undo thirty-plus years of inflation.”
Rowan ran a hand back through her hair, fingers tangling. “A lot of the vendors do more business in barter than cash.”
“Unfortunately, the bank still deals in hard currency.” He studied her. “Look, I do not want to sell, but itneedsto be on the table.”
“Who’s the potential buyer?” she asked.
His expression grew unreadable. He was quiet for a moment before admitting, “The Goshen Group.”
“The megacorporation that owns all those Bible-themed resorts and amusement parks? The one that got busted for outsourcing all their merchandise to sweatshops a few years ago?” Rowan hissed. “There’s no way they’ll keep the Pagan elements! Or anything but Christmas, probably. And you know they’d pay minimum wage—or less if they can get away with it!”
The coffee she had helped him steady suddenly pitched itself right off the side of the pastry box, tumbling to the ground in asplatter. They both gaped down, and Rowan scrambled to retrieve the empty cup, uneasy at the distinct tingle of magic in her hands.
Like with the hot chocolate, she hadn’t meant to cast anything, but it seemed she’d done it all the same.
She looked at the cup and then up at him, doing her best to disguise her uneasiness and her guilt. “Too late to save any of it.”
He gave a small shrug. “I should cut back anyway.”
“Cut back? On coffee?” She shook her head. “Doesn’t compute.”
He chuckled before regarding her with a soft but firm expression. “We’re looking for other options.”
“But are you finding any?” she said with a small sound of exasperation. “And do you really expect me to believe your dad isn’tinclinedto sell to people like them?” Gavin frowned and shook his head. She reached out, setting her fingers on his forearm, trying to get him to look her in the eye. “Your mom wouldn’t have wanted this. You need to convince him not to do it—for her.”
