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one

Holt

My twin sister takes one look at the scissors in my hand and snatches them.

“Sit.” Julie points to a kitchen chair. “You’re trimming a beard, Holt, not chopping down a tree.”

I sit down, knowing arguing with my twin never helps. Outside, the October wind pushes leaves across the porch. My rented suit hangs from a cupboard handle, inside a plastic bag that mocks me for thinking I could pull off being a mysterious stranger at the annual Temptation Ridge Autumn Masked Ball.

I should have rented the suit sooner. I should have bought the ticket sooner. I should have said hello to Lara Stephens sometime this past year, before I started looking for her everywhere I went. I should have done many things sooner.

Closing my eyes, I picture her easily—her hair falling loose around her face, always focused on whoever needs her. Once, I saw her through an open exam room door, waiting patiently as an older man searched for the right words. She never grew impatient with him—only waited for him to find the right words. I want someone to look at me that way, and whenever I imagine it, it’s always her.

Julie lifts my chin with two fingers, and I open my eyes to find the scissors dangerously close to my bearded cheek.

“Don’t take too much.” I clench my fists at my sides to keep from grabbing the scissors.

“I want nurse Lara to find your face.” She runs her fingers along my jaw, catching the cut hair in a towel. “You do have a nice one under there.”

I look toward the stove, embarrassed by her compliment. Julie catches the movement and gently turns my face back to her, but says nothing.

At thirty-three, I can carry a hose into a burning building. I can drive our volunteer ambulance down the mountain in freezing rain, focusing on the road while the medics work behind me. But if Lara is in an emergency room, I forget how my own hands are supposed to work.

We have never spoken. Other nurses take our handoffs—Lara is usually in another bay. I know her name from her badge and from hearing coworkers call to her. She probably knows mine—Temptation Ridge is small enough for that.

Julie shakes a few drops from a little brown bottle into her hand, drawing my attention away from whether Lara even knows who I am.

“What’s that?” I watch her rub her hands together.

“Beard oil.” She rubs it through my beard. “You’re welcome.”

It smells faintly of cedar. I let her comb my beard and tidy the hair around my ears. She studies me with the same expression she wears when checking whether her seven-year-old daughter has really brushed her teeth.

“I’m not going to tell Lara who you are at the Ball tonight,” she says, brushing hair off my shoulders. “But you should.”

“I know.”

Being my twin, I can’t get anything past Julie. Last week, I tried to lie to her about not liking Lara, and she saw right through it. Ever since then, she has made it her mission to force me to go to the masked ball tonight.

“Before midnight, preferably.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “That’s when they do the unmasking.”

I’ve liked Lara for months—I’m not sure how wearing a suit and a mask will give me the confidence to finally speak to her. But with Julie’s encouragement, I’m going to try.

Julie leaves me to dress, a small victory. The suit fits better than I expected—black jacket, white shirt, charcoal tie—I look like one of those billionaires from the movies Julie always watched while we were growing up.

I run my hand over my shorter beard, now smooth from the beard oil, and wonder if Lara will like it. The thought embarrasses me, but then I remember I rented a whole damn suit just so she might notice me.

The eye mask sits on the counter. I put it on and look at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. My shoulders are the same. My hands are the same. But the man looking back seems more confident—like someone who knows how to talk to a woman he likes.

Julie walks back into the kitchen and stands beside me. “Don’t spend the whole evening against a wall.” She squeezes my arm.

I pick up my keys. “I’ll try,” I say. And for once, I mean it.

two

Lara

Irecognize him before he reaches the coat table. For a moment, I think it’s just wishful thinking. I’ve done that before, turned toward a tall man outside the hardware store, hoping it was Holt Mason, only to find someone else. But I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man standing a few feet in front of me is the one I’ve been crushing on since I first arrived in Temptation Ridge, eight months ago—Holt Mason.