Megan laughed, cheeks pink under her beanie. “You meanif? We already won. This goat is epic.”
“Epic and educational,” Connor added, grinning. “We even made sure the signs are historically accurate. Nordic tales and everything.”
“Bless your history-loving souls,” I said, hand to my heart. “Hunter would be so proud.”
“Hunterisproud,” came a deep voice, and I spun to see him striding across the square, snow crunching under his boots, carrying a cardboard tray of steaming cups.
My pulse did a ridiculous little skip.
“Hey, professor!” Jamie called, brightening instantly. “Guess what—I got a ninety-seven on that essay about Reconstruction!”
“That’s incredible,” Hunter said, his tone warm in that rare, unguarded way he sometimes forgot to hide from me. He handed Jamie a hot chocolate before passing drinks to the others.
Luis chimed in, “You told me to research migrationpatterns, remember? I got an A! The teacher said it was the best thing I’ve written.”
Hunter’s mouth curved in a small, proud smile. “That’s because you worked hard. All of you did.”
Connor straightened. “We’re thinking about doing the next presentation at the town hall—make it a community thing.”
Hunter looked… impressed. “That’s ambitious. I like it.”
I stood there, hugging myself, watching the kids beaming under his praise, and my heart squeezed. He’d only been helping them a few weeks, but already they lit up around him. And I… well, so did I.
Megan nudged her cup toward him. “You didn’t get one for yourself?”
“Black coffee,” Hunter said with a shrug, but then his gaze flicked to me, lingering a beat too long, warm as the cups he was passing out. “And a latte with… whatever it is Wes drinks.”
I laughed, trying to keep my knees from buckling. “That’s froufrou coffee to you.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Froufrou, then.”
The kids caught it instantly, of course, their wide grins bouncing between us like ping-pong balls.
Jamie muttered, “He totally brought that for you.”
Megan elbowed him. “Shh!”
“I can hear you,” I said, mock-stern, but my face was on fire.
Hunter handed me the cup, fingers brushing mine, and muttered, “Don’t let it get cold.”
I took a sip, ignoring how badly I wanted to kiss him in the middle of the town square. “Perfect,” I said softly, and his eyes caught mine in a way that felt like a promise.
The kids, bless them, launched into a chorus of goat-related jokes, giving me a moment to breathe. But the truth was obvious—he hadn’t come for them, not really. He’d come for me.
And God help me, I’d never felt so warm in the middle of a snowy Vermont morning.
By late afternoon, I’d left the teens in charge of last-minute goat touch-ups and ducked back to the store. The Story Lantern was dark now,CLOSEDsign on the door. I sprinted up the narrow staircase to my apartment.
Time to transform.
My outfit waited on the bed, lovingly pieced together from too many Etsy searches and a little sewing help from YouTube and a cursing Brooke, who vowed never to try sewing again. Red wool tunic trimmed with white embroidery, a woven belt, thick navy leggings tucked into fur-lined boots, and a cape I’d convinced myself was absolutely necessary.Thecrowning glory was the knitted hat—pointy, striped in red and white, with a bobble big enough to double as a snowball. Festive? Yes. Subtle? Not even remotely.
I tugged it all on, checked the mirror, and grinned at the ridiculous yet glorious version of myself staring back. A yule-goat shepherd, ready for duty.
I’d barely bounded down the stairs when a knock came at the back door.
Heart doing a jittery dance, I swung it open—and froze.
