"All year?"
"Most of it," he says, his hands never pausing. "Some things only grow when it's cold. Winterberry. Certain mosses. You have to know where to look and when."
I think about that. About patience, and timing, and letting things come when they're ready instead of forcing them. It's the opposite of how I usually work—always rushing, always three steps ahead, always trying to anticipate what people will want next season.
"My customers are obsessed," I admit. "I've never had people ask for one specific thing like this before. Wreaths are always big sellers, but customers usually just focus on the size or the style. They’ve never requested a wreathe based on the designer before. You’ve gone viral on decorator sites.”
He pauses, wire held still between his fingers. "That's not why I make them."
"I figured." I meet his gaze when he finally turns. "But it is why I drove up here in a snowstorm."
Something unreadable passes across his face. Then he nods once, like he accepts that answer, like it's sufficient. "You want to see how it's done?" he asks.
My brows lift. "Really?"
He shrugs, turning back to clear a small space on the workbench. "Might as well. How else are you going to pass the time?”
"I would love that," I say, standing and moving closer to the workbench.
The space feels smaller when I'm standing next to him. I'm not short, but he's tall enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes. He smells like pine and wood smoke and something clean, like fresh-fallen snow.
He clears a small space and sets a fresh wire ring in front of me, along with a bundle of pine. His hands are confident as he demonstrates, no wasted movement. "Angle it like this," he says, his voice low and patient. "You want it full, but not bulky. See how the branches layer?"
I copy him, my fingers clumsy at first. The wire bites into my palm, and the pine needles are stiffer than I expected. "I usually let the greenery boss me around."
"That shows," he says mildly.
I laugh. "Rude."
He huffs, the sound warm despite the word. "Here."
He steps closer, reaching around me to adjust my grip. His chest brushes my shoulder, solid and warm, and his hands close over mine, guiding them gently. The contact sends a surprising jolt through me, sharp and electric, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
His hands are rough with calluses, strong and sure. They dwarf mine completely.
"Twist the wire tighter," he murmurs, his voice close enough that I feel the vibration of it.
I do. The wire snaps.
"Oops."
His mouth curves again, more clearly this time. I can see it now, the hint of a smile that softens his entire face. "Easy, Merry."
The way he says my name—low and steady, like he's tasting it—makes my pulse stumble. He doesn't move his hands right away, and for a second we're both very aware of how close we are. His breath is warm near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
Then he steps back, the cool air rushing in where his warmth had been.
"Try again," he says.
I do better the second time, and by the third attempt, I'm starting to get the hang of it. My fingers ache pleasantly, and there's something deeply satisfying about shaping something solid and beautiful with my hands, about creating something that will last.
Outside, the storm continues to rage. The wind howls, and I can hear snow hitting the windows like thrown sand.
"Sounds like it's getting worse," I say, glancing toward the window.
"Yes," he says simply.
"And the road?"
