Dazzled By the Christmas Mountain Man (Mistletoe Ridge #4)

Chapter 1

Emory

The road into Mercury Ridge looks like the opening shot of a Christmas movie, with snow-dusted pines, twinkling lights strung across the lampposts, and a giant wreath on the Welcome sign.

It should feel magical.

It would… if I weren't fishtailing up the mountain in a compact rental car that definitely wasn't built for icy switchbacks.

"My editor owes me hazard pay," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel with frozen fingers. "And possibly new underwear."

This is what I get for being the only journalist on staff who loves Christmas and is foolish enough to drive into the mountains alone during a blizzard warning.

Find the Glass Ghost, Emory.

Get the story, Emory.

Don't come back without an interview, Emory.

Right. Easy. Except the mystical, elusive glassblower who's become a Christmas sensation apparently hates people, avoids cameras, and operates in secret.

His art can only be purchased through a third-party art dealer…

except for the ornaments he leaves in random locations in towns throughout the Appalachian Mountains.

Sometimes he puts them directly on Christmas trees.

Other times, he leaves them out in plain sight on park benches or in mailboxes. And no one ever sees him do it.

The man is basically a festive Bigfoot.

I ease into town and spot a tiny general store glowing with warm yellow light. Bingo. Locals always know everything. If the Glass Ghost sneezed in 2017, someone here probably remembers the exact pitch and volume.

A jingle bell chimes when I step inside, releasing the scent of coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls. Warmth envelops me immediately, thawing my frozen cheeks. My eyes instantly find the Christmas tree in the corner, adorned with the most breathtaking glass ornaments. My pulse kicks into high gear.

The Glass Ghost has been here.

A woman behind the counter looks up, gray hair in a loose braid, eyes kind but curious. And cautious.

"Morning, sweetheart," she says. "Storm's coming in fast. You headed somewhere specific?"

Her tone implies she already knows the answer.

I give her my brightest reporter smile. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. A glassblower? People around here call him—"

"The Glass Ghost," she finishes, folding her arms. "Mm-hmm. Kinda figured. The closer we get to Christmas, the more of you seem to show up."

I blink. Maybe this will be easier than I thought. "So, you know where to find him?"

"Even if I did, he wouldn't appreciate me telling you."

Before I can protest, she softens. "He's a private man. The mountain suits him. Folks go up looking for him all the time, and they never come back with much."

"Are we sure he actually exists?" I joke.

She snorts. "Oh, he exists. Hard to miss a man built like a redwood tree."

A spark of triumph flares in my chest. So, he's real. Redwood tree isn’t much of a description, but it’s a lead. She just confirmed the Glass Ghost is a man… and a big one. So, I can probably rule out anyone under six feet.

“I’m going to find him,” I say with confidence.

The woman looks me over, like she's trying to decide whether I'm stubborn or stupid. Actually, lady, I’m a little of both.

“The weather’s going to get nasty today,” she says. “Is there any chance I can convince you to go home?”

I shake my head. “Not until I’ve interviewed everyone in here and find out where the Glass Ghost is hiding.”

She sighs. "I believe you’re determined enough to find the man, and if you wait much longer, you’ll get stuck in the snow.

” She pauses, as if making up her mind. Then she nods toward a window with a view of a snowy gravel road behind the store.

“If you're set on chasing ghosts, follow the old service road up to the ridge. You might see furnace light if he's working. But you’re wasting your time. He doesn’t give interviews. "

I thank her and head back out, adrenaline buzzing. Snowflakes drift thick and lazy from the sky, catching in my hair and melting against my flushed skin. The air has that heavy, electric feel that only happens right before a storm cracks open.

I hop back into my tiny rental and make my way up the narrow road until I reach a gate barring the road.

The snow is really coming down now, and I weigh my options.

Surely, the woman wouldn’t have sent me up here if I couldn’t reach the Glass Ghost. And it’s a road.

It has to lead somewhere. There must be something beyond the gate…

either the Glass Ghost himself, or at least some shelter.

It's not like I’d be hiking deep into the woods. I can just follow the path until I find something, and I can turn back any time. And it’s daytime. Nothing bad happens to people while the sun is shining, right?

I bundle up as best as I can, duck beneath the gate, and then start walking. My breath fogs the air in white puffs, boots crunching through snow so fresh it sparkles like scattered diamonds. Pine branches hang low under the weight of accumulation, releasing soft whispers as wind moves through them.

After ten minutes or so, I’m ready to turn around. Then I see it.

A glow.

At first, I think it's sunlight pushing through the trees, but sunlight doesn't flicker like that. Doesn't pulse. Doesn't throw long shadows that ripple like molten gold.

I move closer, heart hammering, until I see the workshop tucked into the slope, windows blazing with firelight. Heat rolls out in shimmering waves, distorting the winter air. And through the windows I see the man inside.

Not an old hermit.

Not a frail artisan.

A drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man…

He’s tall, but it’s not just his height that’s impressive.

He has broad shoulders and thick forearms dusted with dark hair.

His movements are slow and powerful as he turns a glowing orb on the end of a steel pipe.

His face is half-lit by the fire in the furnace and half-hidden in shadow, highlighting his chiseled jaw line.

His hair is pushed back, damp with sweat despite the cold beyond his walls.

This is the Glass Ghost? He could be George Clooney’s younger, taller, better looking brother.

He turns suddenly, like he felt me staring.

Our eyes lock through the window, and his narrow in anger.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

I jerk back, stumbling on the snowy path as the door creaks open, and he steps out into the cold like the winter air is nothing to him.

Up close, he's even taller. And hotter.

And definitely not happy to see me.

"What are you doing here?" he rumbles, voice rough like it hasn't been used in days.

"I—I'm Emory West. I'm a journalist. I'm writing a feature on—"

"No." He crosses his arms. "Turn around. Go home."

Okay. Not the warm welcome I was hoping for.

"I just want to talk," I insist. "People love your ornaments. They want to know who you are."

He shakes his head once. "No interviews. No pictures. No spotlight.”

“Just—”

“Not interested."

Snow thickens around us, wind picking up, cutting through my coat. I glance at the sky. "Look, the storm's almost here. If I hike back down right now, I won't even make it to my car before turning into a human popsicle."

With a jolt of fear, I realize it’s true. The snow has gotten worse in the past few minutes, and I was too set on my mission to find the Glass Ghost to notice.

He follows my gaze, jaw tightening. He doesn't want me here… but he also doesn't want a dead reporter on his hands.

"Damn it," he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair. "Unless you want to freeze to death, looks like we’re stuck with each other for a while."

The wind howls, icy and sharp, stealing the warmth from my lungs.

And the Glass Ghost—the reclusive mountain man who's supposed to be nothing more than a mystery—steps aside, holding the door open for me.

Heat spills out, warm enough to melt bones.

I swallow hard and step inside.

Into his world.

Into his fire.

And, if the way he's looking at me means anything… I’m in way over my head.