Chapter 12
HAZEL
I glance up from the back of the store where I’m restocking glass jars full of hard candies as the bell over the front door jingles. The chill from outside sweeps in, followed by a voice I recognize instantly.
“Beatrice, the lights and decorations are nearly falling off the edge of your roof. What kind of establishment are you running here? The place is in disarray," Harry calls, his tone half concern, half teasing.
“That blasted storm,” Mrs. Holmes mutters, bustling out of the kitchen with a tray of fudge bars balanced in her arms. Her cheeks are pink from the heat of the ovens—or maybe from the mention of her name. Hard to tell. I’ve never seen her flustered before, not since I started working here.
“Welcome in, Harry,” I say, though his attention is already locked on her. His energy—bright and mischievous—is contagious, and I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips as I watch him lean on his cane like it’s part of some grand performance.
“Well, hello there,” Harry offers with a wink in my direction, but glances over his shoulder at my boss. “Fancy seeing you again, my dear. How was your trip up the mountain? Did you get yourself exactly what you needed?”
If he means falling for a handsome lumberjack after being rescued from a blizzard, then yes.
“Ah, yes. I did find the perfect tree.” I turn away quickly, cheeks warming as the memory of Benjamin chopping down the tree surfaces in my mind.
Mrs. Holmes snorts, though her lips twitch as if she’s suppressing a smile. “What she got was trapped in the snow, you meddling old fool. Nearly froze herself, thanks to that storm.” She sets the tray down with a firm clink and begins transferring the squares of fudge into the glass case.
“Well, don’t you look a sight,” he quips with a sly grin. “I’d almost say you were trying to impress me with that fudge.”
Mrs. Holmes rolls her eyes, though a flush rises in her cheeks. “Impress you? Harry Jenkins, the only thing you’re impressed by is the bottom of a candy jar.” She swats at him with her towel.
Unfazed, he chuckles and pops a piece of fudge in his mouth from her tray before she can stop him. “Mmm. Still the best in town. But I hear I deserve a thank-you from you, Beatrice.”
“A thank-you?” She huffs, pulling the tray away from him. “For what? Eating me out of shop and home?”
Harry leans across the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“For sending Hazel here up the mountain the other day. If it wasn’t for me, she’d never have crossed paths with the Oakwoods and found her perfect tree.
” He jerks his head toward me with a smirk, as if we’re in some conspiracy together.
Did he know that Benjamin had rescued me? How could he? Ben had said he was going straight home the next morning.
“Well, while it was nice of you to try and welcome her to town, next time I’d appreciate you think about her well-being rather than her wants.” I keep my eyes trained on the jars before me, but I can feel the heat of their gazes on my back.
“She seems to be here and wholly in one piece. A drive in the fresh forest air is good for everyone.” Out of the corner of my eye, he shrugs.
“What are you doing here anyway? Your shop doesn’t close for another few hours,” she scolds, though her voice is softer now, threaded with that familiar fondness.
“The lads have it under control,” Harry replies, puffing up his chest. “Figured I’d stretch these old bones with a walk down Main Street in all its holiday glory.
But then I saw your storefront looking… well, let’s be honest, gloomier than a snowdrift in February.
Thought I’d pop in and lend a hand.” He pauses dramatically.
“And of course, to sample a sweet or two while I’m at it.
Purely for quality control, you understand. ”
Mrs. Holmes narrows her eyes. “You helping means I’ll have more work to clean up after you. And as for quality control—” She slides a piece of fudge across the counter with a practiced flick. “You’ll get one more, not three. Don’t think I don’t remember the last time.”
Harry chuckles, snatching it up. “One is enough if it’s from you, Beatrice.” His words are smooth, but the sparkle in his eyes softens the edge into something almost genuine.
She tuts, shaking her head as she pretends to busy herself with arranging the display. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love it.”
I clear my throat, trying to break the playful tension before it spirals into something that makes me feel like an intruder.
“I can help with the lights,” I offer, glancing out the window where a half strand of twinkling bulbs droops pitifully toward the ground, the wreath dangling sideways like it’s given up on life.
“I saw a ladder in the back storage. Should be tall enough.”
“You?” Mrs. Holmes’s eyes widen as she straightens, towel in hand. “I couldn’t possibly ask you to risk yourself. That sidewalk is slicker than sleet, and if you fall, who will help me run this shop?”
“It’s no trouble,” I assure her, already untying my apron and trading it for my coat. “Besides, customers aren’t going to feel too festive if they have to duck under falling garlands and half-dead lights. Right now it’s more hazard than holiday.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs, lips pursed as she studies me. Then she sighs, relenting. “Fine. But be careful. Make sure the ladder is steady before you even think of climbing a single rung. There should be a hammer and some roof hooks in the back drawer.”
Behind her, Harry leans on his cane and smirks. “See, Beatrice? Even the young ones are throwing themselves at the chance to impress you. Maybe I ought to start climbing ladders again just to prove I’ve still got it.”
“If you climbed a ladder, Harry, the only thing you’d prove is that you belong in traction.” She swats him again with the towel, though this time she’s laughing, the sound warm and full of light.
And Harry just beams, looking for all the world like a man who’s won something far more important than an argument.
I shake my head, chest heaving with silent laughter as I make my way into the back storage, quickly spotting what I need: hammer, roof hooks, ladder. Easy enough. I haul them outside through the back door and round the side of the shop, boots crunching against the icy sidewalk.
Placing my hands on my hips, I tip my head back to survey the damage.
The storm had done a number—nothing broken, thank the goddess, but the strands of twinkling icicle lights hang half off the roof like drunken garland, knotted and swaying in the wind.
The big wreath has slipped sideways, lopsided like it’s had too much eggnog.
“It’s not like I didn’t spend yesterday untangling half a dozen strands for my tree,” I mutter, tucking the hammer and hooks into my coat pocket. I rub my hands together, already chilled to the bone. “How they get tangled sitting in a box, I’ll never understand.”
I set the ladder beneath the worst of the mess and give the first rung a cautious shake. It holds. With a deep breath, I climb until I’m nearly to the top, bracing one hand against the roofline. My fingers graze snow, and I wince at the burn. Should’ve grabbed gloves.
But gloves would’ve made this harder.
And frozen fingers will make it impossible with your Raynaud’s, my inner voice taunts, unhelpful as ever.
I grit my teeth and get to work, carefully untangling the strands. The bulbs knock against one another with delicate little chimes, like glass bells. Slow and steady; don’t break anything.
“No gloves again?”
The voice makes me still instantly, heat roaring through me even though I’m perched in the icy wind. I know that voice. My magic hums, restless beneath my skin, and my thighs squeeze together.
“Benjamin?”
I must be hallucinating. Mr. I’m-done-for-the-season, all cozy in his cabin in the woods, hours up the mountain where I told myself he belonged. He can’t be here. Not now—not looking up at me with that unreadable expression, snow caught in his blonde hair.
But he is. Ax strapped at his side, broad shoulders filling the space like he owns it, arms crossed over his chest as though I’ve offended him personally by existing on this ladder.
“Hazel.” His voice dips, low and scolding. “What the hell are you doing? You’re going to fall.”
“I’m fine.” My pulse is a drumbeat, but I force a shrug, turning back to the lights as if the sight of him hasn’t unraveled me completely. “Perfectly fine. Some of us don’t have the luxury of spending our days chopping wood in the middle of nowhere and lazing in our cabins.”
He huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching downward. “You already twisted your ankle once. And now you’re up a ladder after a storm? Without gloves?”
I glance down at him, trying not to notice how damn good he looks against the snow in his flannel, suspenders, and jeans that hug his thighs. “You’re observant. Gold star. Maybe you’d like to take notes on how to actually fix something instead of just glaring at me?”
His jaw ticks, and for a moment I think I’ve gone too far. But then his eyes spark with something that looks dangerously close to amusement. “You’re impossible.”
“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about you.”
I reach higher, stretching for the most tangled strand. My heart kicks at the way he steps closer, his hand lifting like he’s ready to catch me if I so much as wobble.
“Hazel—” he warns.
“Relax. I’ve got this. See?” I wiggle the lights free with a triumphant little tug.
And that’s when the wind slams into me—a sudden, vicious gust that rattles the ladder and steals the air from my lungs.
The ladder tips. My stomach drops.
“Hazel!”
I cry out, instinctively grabbing for the roof, but my frozen fingers slip off the icy edge. The hammer in my pocket bangs against the ladder as my boots skid on the rungs. In the split second before I fall, my hand catches on a single strand of lights.
The bulbs snap and pop in protest, glass biting into my palm as I dangle breathless, scrambling in the air for any purchase.
My heart is in my throat. The world tilts. Snow whirls from the roof into my eyes.
And Benjamin’s roar of my name shatters through my thoughts just as my grip gives way.