She teaches at the school, and she always goes all out at Christmas with a different kind of sculpture.
It’s what brought our festival from a simple small-town affair to a tourist attraction.
Besides the good skiing and beautiful lodge Greyson and I work at.
“She’s almost finished setting it up.” Which she always does on the grounds, making the pieces and putting them together in front of the town. The local news covers it.
I rub my hands together. “Can’t wait to see what she’s making this year. Looks like she’s still using fallen twigs for her base.”
Greyson tugs me closer. “She is.”
My shy smile has him chuckling and taking a sip of his beer. Yes, distract yourself because if we keep looking at each other like this, we’re going to make a scene.
That’s all I need right now.
I turn to survey the room.
None of the tourists are looking at us twice, and I do my best to ignore how the locals are openly watching our every move at the bar.
I pause, lingering under their attention to prove a point.
To myself or to them, to be determined, but I’m not shying away just because people can see us.
Because they’ll talk about me being ashamed if I look that way to them.
I tug at my jacket as the warmth starts to overwhelm me, and Greyson pulls the zipper down, letting it fall open with a smile.
Shaking my head at him, a blush sweeps over my cheeks and down my neck.
His eyes darken before he nods to my glass. “Finish up, and we’ll check out the next stop. Get you some food to soak up the alcohol.”
I nod and take big gulps of my cider before I drain the last drops of it.
My body is buzzing, floating as Greyson escorts me through the throng of people to the door.
The brisk air is refreshing as it sweeps under my coat.
A giggle escapes me before I can reign it back.
The next closest stop on the tour is the Hammon’s Deli, an old staple of the town before all the new arrivals.
Inside has more people than I thought, sitting at tables with plates of meat and cheese and fruit.
I gasp at the display along the long wooden counter to our left. Butcher paper is piled high with the same meats, cheeses, and fruits that I got a glimpse of on patron’s plates.
It’s beautiful.
Prosciutto formed into flowers, perfectly cubed cheeses, melon fanned out, and they all mix together to create a wonderful picture.
I wish I could have seen it when it was full.
I’m grinning when Colleen Hammon, the middle daughter of three, bounces up with a couple of plates in hand. “Can I help you pick some treats to try?”
“Hey. This is new.”
Pink infiltrates her cheeks as she nods. “Yeah. I talked Dad into it when Mr. Lancaster invited us to be part of the tour.”
“You put this together?”
