An hour later, I’m standing in front of my closet in an actual panic. Everything I own falls into two categories: farm work clothes and the single dress I wear to weddings… or downtown when I plead with the city to pay me. Neither seems appropriate for lunch before a business presentation. I am obviously primarily concerned with the impression I’ll make on potential clients and absolutely not the nerdy tree scientist who smells pine fresh. He would be a distraction, and I’m way too broke to let myself get distracted.
Eventually, I settle on my best dark slacks and a bright blue sweater Eden bought me last birthday. I’ve never worn it because it seemed too nice for everyday. I even dig out a scarf—a soft gray one Esther gave me years ago that still has the tags on it. It’s like my sisters are trying to send me messages through cozy fabric.
By the time I reach downtown, the sun is already slanting low between the buildings, casting everything in that golden light that makes Pittsburgh look like a postcard. It gets dark so early this close to the solstice, but I don’t mind as I look at the scene before me. The Christmas market spreads across the plaza in front of PPG Place, wooden booths arranged in neat rows near the ice rink, where the city installed a massive Christmas tree my goats would devour in a heartbeat.
I spot Reed immediately, standing near the rink entrance in his dark wool coat. And the glasses. Damn him for looking vulnerable and smart and mysterious. When he turns and sees me, his face lights up in a way that makes my stomach do something acrobatic. I need to remember this man holds the power to ruin me.
“You look…” He stops, seeming to search for words as his gaze travels from my face down to my boots and back up. “Really nice. Different. Good different.”
“Thanks.” I feel heat creep through my neck despite the cold air. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
His dark hair is doing that thing where it’s perfectly messy, like he ran his hands through it but somehow made it look intentional. And he smells like those beautiful fir trees he’s always coddling. I definitely don’t hate it.
“Come on.” He offers me his arm. “Let me show you around.”
The market feels totally different when I’m here with a guy. Not that this is a guy-guy. Reed Saint Nicholas is the supervisor of my restitution for naughty goat behavior. That’s it.
But as Christmas music drifts from speakers hidden among the booths, mixing with the sound of a flute band performing near the tree, it’s easy to forget this isn’t a date. Skaters glide around the rink, their laughter echoing off the surrounding glass buildings. The air smells of cinnamon and roasted nuts and that crisp winter scent that makes everything feel like a storybook.
“This is incredible,” I say, stopping to watch a glassblower shape ornaments at his booth. The molten glass glows orange in his hands, transforming into delicate spirals and flowers as we watch.
“Pittsburgh does holiday magic right.” Reed guides me toward a booth selling handcrafted jewelry. “The guy I mentioned is somewhere with the metalworkers.”
We wander through the rows, Reed smiling at children and couples. A woodworker carves intricate nativity scenes. A woman sells hand-knitted scarves in every color imaginable. A couple offers chocolate truffles shaped like tiny presents.
“Reed!” a voice calls from behind us.
We turn to see an Asian woman about my age approaching, her magenta hair escaping from a knitted hat. She’s wearing work boots and paint-stained jeans under a thick coat, but somehow manages to look effortlessly put together.
“Maya,” Reed says, his face brightening. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Maya Chang, meet Eliza Storm. Eliza, Maya owns Riverside Studios.”
Maya extends a hand that’s strong and paint-stained. “Nice to meet you. Reed’s told me about your goat business.”
“He has?” I glance at Reed, surprised.
“I was telling Maya about what you did at Bramblewood,” Reed explains. “She’s been dealing with invasive vines at her warehouse complex for months.”
“Poison ivy,” Maya says with feeling. “English ivy. Some kind of vine that might actually be strangling the building. I’ve had three landscaping companies tell me they can’t handle it unless they use so many chemicals I’d have to evacuate the artists.”
“Goats love English ivy,” I say automatically. “And poison ivy doesn’t bother them at all. How many acres are we talking about?”
As Maya describes her property, I find myself getting excited. It’s exactly the kind of work my herd excels at, and they could clear her property in a matter of days if it doesn’t snow. We exchange contact information, Maya promising to call next week to schedule a site visit.
“That was amazing,” Reed says after Maya heads to her booth. “You should see your face when you talk about your work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You light up. Like you’re talking about something you love instead of just a job.”
Before I can respond, he’s steering me toward a booth selling roasted nuts. The vendor recognizes Reed immediately, calling out a greeting in Italian.
“Due coni, per favore,” Reed says, holding up two fingers.
The man grins and fills two paper cones with hot almonds, the steam rising in little clouds between us. Reed hands me one, his fingers brushing mine as I take it.
“You speak Italian?” I ask, warming my hands on the cone.
“A little. My grandmother on my mother’s side. She used to make these nuts every Christmas.” Reed’s voice gets softer. “It’s one of the few family traditions I miss.”
