Beyond the quaint row of shops across the street, Angel Mountain itself reaches for the heavens, each tree and crag on its towering face frosted with shimmering snow.
All I want is to post a dozen photos to my socials. But then I remember that I’m still avoiding them afterthe incident. And besides, I havewaytoo much to do to get caught up in the view.
After a quick shower, I pull on jeans and an old sweater and grab my apple pie from the fridge.
I’m in too much of a hurry to get started with work, so I don’t make coffee, or even put the pie on a plate, opting to just hold it in the foil and take a bite. The sweet crumble is the perfect counterpart for the tang of the apple and the luscious flaky crust.
Mrs. Perkins missed her calling working in real estate. If the food she left for me is any indication, she probably could have opened a restaurant.
Too soon, my delicious pie is gone and I’m heading downstairs to the shop.
The space is pretty cold, but I’ll be cleaning and organizing all day, so that’s probably a good thing. There’s no point running up the heat bill when I don’t even have customers here yet.
Whatever the light of day did for the upstairs apartment, it does the opposite down here. The dinginess of the paint and carpet is more apparent, and the wooden bookshelves are clearly just cheap pine, stained darker to look like something more expensive. Their uneven heights and the way some of them seem to be listing to one side hint that they were made by an amateur.
But I can work with it. I can work with all of it. I’m no stranger to a paintbrush.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve only ever paintedone room in my life. But I’ve seen videos of people painting their homes. How hard can it be?
Before I get into all that, the first order of business is to make the place look a little more welcoming. If I learned one thing from publishing, it’s that buzz is everything. And the buzz about this place needs to start at the front door.
My first thought is something festive. Some pine boughs would be decorative and aromatic. And I am right next to a tree lot.
Glancing out the side window, I notice that the chain in front of the lot is down, so I decide to grab my coat and head out to meet my neighbor before I get myself too dirty.
It’s definitely cold outside, and the sky is gray over Angel Mountain. But the breeze is light, nothing like the harsh wind that whistles between the buildings in the city. Christmas decorations brighten the shops, and an older couple walking across the street waves to me in a friendly way, as if to say,We’re all up early, isn’t it great?
As I approach the lot, I can’t help wondering again why it’s unadorned. The evergreens leaning against wooden rails add a festive fragrance to the air, but that seems more accidental than festive.
It doesn’t take long to spot a man in a lined flannel shirt bent over a stack of trees wrapped in netting.
“Hey, there,” I call out cheerfully. “I’m your new neighbor.”
He doesn’t respond, and as I move closer, I can’t help but notice that his shoulders are broad enough to strain the seams of the flannel.
“Hi,” I say from about three feet away. “I’m Taylor. Taylor Greer.”
Suddenly, the mountain of a man is rising up and I wouldn’t be half surprised if the top of his head scraped the sky. He doesn’t say anything, just narrows his brilliant blue eyes at me while I stare up in awe at what might very well be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
He’s got a thick shock of dirty blond hair that would be at home on the hero of a surfer movie or a cartoon prince, but he’s dressed and built like a lumberjack, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut diamonds.
“Roan,” he growls after a moment.
It takes me a second to realize that’s hisname. This massive cowboy of a man has a name like a stallion. That adds up.
I’m unable to do anything but gawk up at him like a fish on a hook for another couple of seconds as he observes me coolly.
“Can I help you?” he asks at last, bringing me back to my senses.
“I, uh, I was wondering if you have any extra trimmings,” I manage. “You know, like from the bottoms of the Christmas trees? Could I buy some?”
“Nope,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, stealing a glance over at the pile of trimmings down by the front of the lot. “I just wanted to do something for the front of my shop. It looks so sad beside all the other places with their pretty decorations.”
The words are out before I realize that in my nervous babbling I’ve probably managed to offend the only other proprietor with less decor than I have.
“Just take what you want,” he barks out before turning back to the stack of trees he was unwrapping when I got here.
