I hopped up onto the facing counter, and he looked pissed. Belatedly, I wondered how hygienic it was for me to plant my ass there, but forged ahead anyway. “We had a planning meeting for the Parade of Lights,” I began, trying to sound businesslike although my voice carried too much excitement. “And I might haveexpanded on the role of the bookstore and volunteered you and me for a combined Nordic-themed stop—your coffee shop and my bookstore together. Drinks, decorations, the whole package, and I?—”
“No.”
I hesitated, then pressed on. “I knew you’d say that, but I have reasons why it would be a great idea for you to join in. Five of them, in fact.” I held up a finger. “One: community spirit.” Another finger. “Two: extra customers.” A third. “Three: showing off your coffee.” Fourth. “Four: bringing together the town.” And with a sheepish grin, I lifted my thumb. “Five: making me look good in front of the brothers.”
Hunter listened to all of it in silence, face unreadable, arms still folded, utterly impassive.
“No.”
I pouted, turning on my best wide-eyed look from under my lashes, but that wasn’t getting me anywhere. His expression didn’t so much as flicker, and it made me push harder.
“Why are you being grumpy?” I teased.
“I’m not grumpy, I’m tired,” he said.
“You sound grumpy to me. Extra-grumpy. Like Ebenezer Scrooge before the ghosts show up.” I was fixed on the Christmas track now.
His brow lifted. “You’re volunteering me for things I don’t want to be part of.”
“You’d love it,” I shot back, all mock seriousness. “Community, cocoa, candles—the whole Nordic vibe.”
He stared at me, blinking once, then said with unshakable certainty, “No.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll leave you to think about it then, and you let me know when you’re ready to start planning.” Then I slid off the counter, stumbled on the landing, tripped over my own feet, and fell right into him. His hands shot out, catching me before I could crash to the floor, and for a breathless second, I was pressed against a warm, half-dressed Hunter, my pulse hammering as I stared up at him. In that instant, I got a close-up view I wasn’t ready for—eyes the color of sky, sharp and clear in the half-light, and lips that were soft-looking, tempting, pressed into a thin line of annoyance. My breath caught; all I could think was how unfair it was for someone to be so damn gorgeous when I was the one falling all over the place. “Oops,” I offered, then pulled myself together to step back, tucking my long hair behind my ear and wincing at the sudden ache in my knee.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I insisted quickly. He didn’t move, only watched me, waiting with his hand stretched toward me, as if he wasn’t convinced. When I finally edged toward the rear entrance, he followed me, stern and silent, until I stepped out into the alley and opened myback door. I heard his own click shut, then I closed and locked mine. Leaning back, I muttered to no one, “That could have gone better.” Then I hop-limped to the stairs up to my apartment.
Still, there was one positive thing that came out of tonight—I got to see Hunter McCoy in his pajamas.
Chapter 4
Hunter
I hadto hustle Wesley outside because I’d gotten so turned on it was shameful. I put it down to the fact I hadn’t slept with anyone since my ex, and even with Michael, sex had been sporadic and unsatisfying.
Wesley, with his sexy self, falling into my arms, stole my sleep.
Stupidly pretty, annoying, Wesley stared up at me with dark eyes and gasped. And I was instantly hard.
Before I got over the embarrassment of having Wesley in my arms, albeit by accident, and getting hard as steel at the scent of him, how soft and sweet he’d felt pressed against me, the surprise in his wide eyes, the way his mouth had fallen open as if he couldn’t believe I was holding him. For fuck’s sake, I couldn’t believe it either, or the memory lingered far longer than it should have.
Adding insult to injury, what with lack of sleep and a faint throb already building behind my eyes, I’d already dealt with a couple of disasters. As I was prepping pastries, the second oven gave a sickeningclunkand died. I stood there with flour on my hands, staring at the useless hunk of metal, the ache in my temples tightening with every second.
“Of course. Perfect timing.” I gave it a frustrated glare. The day had barely started, and already it was going wrong. Then, when I was making myself a coffee, our primary machine hissed and sputtered as if it were about to explode. I slammed the switch off and groaned, grabbing the phone to call in for a replacement part. Great. Add that to the list. We’d have to rely on the second machine, which was slow and unwieldy. My head pulsed harder, a reminder that stress and fatigue were piling on before noon.
Wesley didn’t help. I rubbed at my eyes, the light from the windows already too bright, and his chatter made my head buzz like a hornet’s nest. He was at my door as soon as I opened, and now we were up to three visits already, and it was only eleven a.m. I had to deal with him popping in with arms full of scribbled recipes for Nordic drinks, wild ideas for decorations, and his latest so-called conspiracy theory. Today’s gem involved the snapped pine up on the first bend of the mountain road where he’d once wreckedhis car—he swore he’d seen something there, maybe the legendary snow angels that haunted lonely alpine passes.
“I never really thought it was all my fault, you know,” he’d begun. Still, anyone seeing Wesley Darkwood driving on snowy roads knew to stay well away. He was aselaboratein his driving as he was in his life.
“And according to this forum I found,” Wesley chattered, leaning over the counter, “they spotted ghostly figures up in Whiteface Mountain last winter. Snow angels, Hunter! They lure drivers off the road with wing-shaped shadows in the snow. And now I’m telling you, me getting distracted and hitting the pine on the bend could be proof they’re here too.” He told me all this while I was grinding beans and pulling his usual ridiculous order—half-caf, double-shot latte with oat milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, and extra whipped cream with sprinkles. Coffee is coffee in my book, but I wasn’t about to argue with the man when he paid extra for all that froufrou nonsense. Money was money, even if his theories made less sense than his order. The chatter scraped at already fraying nerves, every laugh or shift of his voice sparking the dull ache in my skull.
“And talking of Norway…” He tilted his head. My head hurt, and the light through the window seemed suddenly too bright, almost overwhelming, and I caught myself wondering if this was the start of a migraine. I hadn’t had one of those since I left Ashcroft—more specifically, since I’d ended things with Mark and started my life over.
Wesley was still talking
“You know, with all our Nordic prep, there was this story from Bergen,” he went on without taking a breath, “about a ghostly woman in white who wanders frozen roads and whispers people’s names until they skid into the drifts. Totally real. It’s all connected, Hunter, I swear.”
