Her brows lift. Just slightly. But it's enough to tell me I've said something interesting.
"Well," she drawls, setting down the pen she'd been holding, "Is that so?"
I blink. "Sorry?"
She sets her hands flat on the counter like she's settling in for entertainment. "What do you want with Rowan?”
I give her my most professional smile. “I own a holiday-themed shop in Knoxville, and I'd like to place a wholesale order for wreaths. I emailed him and—"
"And he didn't email you back," she finishes with a nod.
"Right."
She leans forward a little, elbows resting on the polished wood. "Honey, Rowan hasn't answered an email since… I don't know, the Obama administration?"
Heat creeps into my cheeks. "Okay, well. I drove all the way here, so is there a way to contact him? A phone number?"
A soft laugh escapes her, the kind that says I'm adorable in my ignorance. "Cell service doesn't even behave up where he lives. And if you do manage to reach him, he'll probably think it's a telemarketer and throw the phone in the snow."
"That's… extreme."
"That’s Rowan."
I clamp down on my sigh, feeling the day's exhaustion settling into my shoulders. "Look. I'm not trying to bother him. I just need to buy wreaths. A lot of them. I can pay today, and I will pay extra for the rush order."
At that, her eyes narrow, like she's weighing me.
Not my money.Me.
Outside, the wind picks up. Snow taps the windows in quick little bursts, the way rain does before it becomes a storm. The sound is sharper now, insistent. I glance toward the glass and notice how the flakes have grown thicker, more aggressive.
The woman glances toward the glass, then back to me. Her expression shifts, something calculating giving way to something almost mischievous.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Merry," I say. “Like Merry Christmas.”
Her mouth quirks. "Of course it is."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the universe has a sense of humor," she says, and then, before I can respond, she reaches under the counter and pulls out a small paper bag.
She slides it toward me.
Inside is a thick, golden cookie the size of my palm, the surface crackled and dusted with coarse sugar.
"Ginger molasses," she says. "You'll want that."
I stare at it. "Why?"
"Because if you're going up to Rowan’s cabin, you're going to need sugar, courage, and a little bit of luck."
My stomach flips. "His cabin? I don’t know that I should bother him at home…”
“I thought you said you wanted to find Rowan?” Her eyes glitter with something between amusement and mischief.
I swallow. "I do.”
