I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, breath puffing white into the air. The sky is a low, heavy gray, promising more snow. I’ll need to check the trap lines before it hits, maybe reinforce the north shed wall, and … Crunch. Footsteps. On my land.
I go still, palm tightening around the axe handle. There’s only one person brazen enough to walk onto my property without an invitation — without even a phone call — and do it like she owns the place. Sure enough, an obnoxiously cheerful voice floats over the snow.
“Ethan Kinkaid! I swear you chop wood more than you breathe!”
I grind my teeth. “Mayor Davidson.”
Janice Davidson crests the slope, bundled in a cherry-red parka that looks like it’s never seen actual forest. She’s waving at me like we’re old friends. We are not old friends.
“What brings you all the way up here?” I ask, leaning on my axe. “Lose a tourist?”
She beams. “I came to see you, actually.”
That’s never good. Janice trudges closer, boots squeaking in the snow. “You look well,” she says, eyeing my chopped wood like she’s judging my stacking technique.
“Mm.”
“And your beard is coming in nicely.”
“Mm.”
“And your cabin …”
“Janice,” I say flatly. “Get to the point.”
She sighs dramatically, then flashes the too-wide, politician smile she saves for situations where she’s about to ask for something unreasonable.
“Well, since you mentioned it…” She claps her gloved hands together. “I wanted to personally invite you to participate in our annual One Magical Match Holiday Charity Auction!”
I stare at her. She stares back, still smiling. The silence stretches. A crow caws somewhere in the distance.
Finally, I say, “No.”
She blinks. “You haven’t even heard the details.”
“I don’t need to. The answer’s no.”
“It’s for the food bank,” she says brightly.
“I donate every year.”
“Yes, and we appreciate that,” she concedes, “but this year we’re adding something special. A Holiday Bride Experience.”
“No.”
“We’re hoping you’ll be our grand finale.”
“Absolutely not.”
Janice plants a mittened hand on her hip. “Ethan. I am down four eligible bachelors this year. Four. Two shipped out for active duty, one broke his leg, and one ran away to Breckenridge because he ‘needed space.’ I am scraping the bottom of the barrel here for eligible bachelors. You know the townspeople love this event. It’s a big draw.”
“Sounds like a you problem,” I say, turning back to my woodpile.
She comes closer. “The town needs you! It’s all in good fun. A little festive spirit. You stand onstage for five minutes and let the ladies bid on …”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish!”
