This year, it feels different though.
Because this year, Jax Taylor is here.
Voluntarily. Sort of.
Violet bounces beside us, all puffy coat and sparkly hat and fourteen-year-old hopefulness. Jax walks on her other side, shoulders hunched against the cold, boots crunching in a rhythm so steady it almost blends into the music drifting from the speakers.
He said he didn’t want to come.
Then Violet said, “Please?”
And the stubborn, avalanche-surviving mountain man folded like a wet napkin. Now he walks like a man calculating escape routes while pretending he’snotcalculating escape routes.
People glance our way. A few wave. Some whisper.
We ignore it. Or try to.
“It’s not usually this crowded,” I tell Jax as we weave through a cluster of families.
“It’s crowded enough,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at a group of teenagers running past. “Do they all have a death wish?”
“They’re children.”
“Same thing.”
I bite back a smile. “Relax. This is supposed to be fun.”
“For who?”
“Your new fan club, apparently.”
He stiffens. “Ava.”
“What? I’m just saying—after the avalanche, you’ve become the mysterious town icon. The hermit resurrected. People are curious.”
“They should be less curious.”
“Good luck with that.”
We reach the game stalls, and Violet lets out a delighted gasp. “The ring toss! Mom, can I—?”
I barely get out a “Go ahead,” before she’s halfway across the snow.
Jax watches her with an expression I can’t quite decode. Not fear. Not discomfort.
Something softer. Something tender.
When I glance up at him, he looks away quickly, jaw tightening. “She shouldn’t run on ice like that.”
“You’re adorable when you pretend you’re not worried,” I tease.
He growls something that is, generously, 60% consonants.
Violet picks up the plastic rings, winds up, and throws. The ring arcs gracefully… then bounces off the peg and plops into the snow with all the majesty of a dead fish.
“Oof,” I say.
“She aimed wrong,” Jax says.
