She reaches for her pen and scribbles on the back of one of the holiday market flyers, her handwriting small and precise.
"This is the turnoff," she says, tapping the paper. "You'll drive up Old Ridge Road until it's more pothole than pavement. Keep going until you see a split-rail fence and a big pine with a lightning scar down the trunk—runs from top to bottom, you can't miss it. You'll think you're lost."
"I grew up I Tennessee," I tell her. "I’m no stranger to back roads.”
She snorts. "Then you'll be right at home. When you see the fence, take the left fork. Not the right. The right takes you to theHollow and you do not want to end up down there in weather like this."
She pauses, then adds, more gently, "If the weather gets too bad, turn back."
"I'll be fine," I say automatically, because I've built a whole career on make-it-work moments like this.
She studies me again, then pushes the paper closer. Outside, the wind rattles the shop's front window. "Rowan's place is the last cabin before the tree line. You'll see smoke if he's home."
"And if he's not?"
Her smile turns knowing.
"Oh," she says. "He's home."
I fold the paper and tuck it into my pocket. "Thank you."
She waves a hand dismissively. "Just… don't be surprised if he growls at you. His mama tried, but the boy has always been a grump."
"I've dealt with grumpy men," I say.
Her laugh is louder this time, genuine. "Mountain men are a different breed, honey.”
I lift my chin, cookie bag in hand. "I can handle it."
"Mmm." She hums, unconvinced. "What's your shop called?"
"Merry & Bright."
"Of course it is," she says again, like the universe is truly out here doing comedy bits.
I head for the door, but her voice stops me as my fingers touch the cold metal handle.
"And Merry?"
I turn.
Her expression shifts from amused to serious. Outside, the snow is coming down faster now, thickening into white streaks that blur the edges of the buildings across the street.
"Good luck.”
I step back out into the snow, pulling my scarf tighter. The wind cuts through my coat immediately, and I duck my head against it as I hurry to my car.
Get the wreaths. Get out.
That's the plan.
But as I start the engine and watch the snow begin to accumulate on my windshield in thick, determined layers, I have a sinking suspicion the universe has other ideas.
And somewhere up on that mountain, a reclusive wreathe-making grump is completely unaware that I'm coming.
Chapter 2
Rowan
