Or maybe something we’d both enjoy too much.
When the door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of vanilla and her faint perfume, I dropped my head into my hands and groaned loud enough to wake half the neighborhood.
This woman was going to absolutely, completely, thoroughly ruin me.
And the worst part? I was pretty sure I was going to let her.
FOUR
JESS
The GPS died three miles back, which felt like a personal attack.
Apparently, “Cartwright barn, you can’t miss it” was Powell-speak for “wander rural Alabama until you question all your choices.” I passed three barns, two sheds, and a deer-blind on stilts before I saw his truck parked beside a weather-faded barn that had long since surrendered its red color to sun and time. A crooked sign was screwed to the fence: CARTWRIGHT: KEEP OUT (unless you’re bringing pie).
Very welcoming.
I zipped my jacket a little higher as I stepped out. It wasn’t freezing—this was early December in Alabama, not Alaska—but the air had a cool snap that slid under my collar and made me wish my coat was just a tad thicker.
The big sliding barn door was half-open. Warm yellow light spilled through the gap, and I could hear faint movement inside. Of course Powell was already here. Of course he had the place lit up like a crime scene for elves. Of course he hadn’t thought to send a pin until after I’d texted twice.
I pushed the door wider and stepped into a mostly empty barn.
Not spooky-empty. Just… unused. A couple old hay bales sagged in a corner. A plastic tub labeled EXTENSION CORDS (BAD) sat shoved against the wall like someone forgot to haul it into town with the rest of the Christmas decorations. A battered fiberglass reindeer—missing one antler—peeked from beneath a tarp, its single intact eye judging me.
The air smelled like dust, old hay, and faint cedar—the scent of every off-season Christmas item that had ever lived here.
Powell stood near a folding table he’d set up in the center of the open space, sleeves pushed up, forearms on full display, unfolding papers with the calm of a man who believed everything would go smoothly.
He looked up when my boots tapped the concrete. “There you are.”
“You are terrible at giving directions,” I replied. “You said ‘Cartwright barn.’ There are at least four. FOUR, Powell. I passed two that looked like murder scenes.”
He winced. “I sent you the pin.”
“After I texted twice asking if I’d crossed into Mississippi.”
He laughed under his breath. “Okay, that’s fair. Next time—pin first.”
“Next time, GPS coordinates tattooed across your forehead.”
That earned a full laugh, warm and deep, and damn it, it did something to me I did not appreciate.
I took a seat, flipping open my notebook and heard it.
Clip—clop. Clip—clop. Tiny hooves.
Had the man shanghaied actual reindeer for this meeting?
Slowly, I turned.
A miniature donkey—plump, gray, fluffier than physics should allow, with a purple halter and a little brass bell—walked around an old hay bale like she’d been waiting to make an entrance. Her ears perked when she spotted him.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Powell’s entire face softened. “Esmerelda!”
The donkey brayed—a delighted, ridiculous sound—and trotted straight to him. She shoved her head into his stomach with the force of a devoted toddler, and he sank a hand into her fur, laughing.
