Unwrapping a Firefighter (Christmas on Wilder Mountain #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

GREER

If one more string of lights dies on me, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.

No joke, I am ninety seconds away from faking my own death and letting someone else run Wilder Lodge’s Christmas Eve gala.

“Come on,” I mutter, giving the tangled mess of wires and plastic a shake. “You have one job.”

The strand flickers in a half-hearted way, then goes dark for good.

I drop my head back and stare up at the vaulted ceiling of the Wilder Mountain Lodge ballroom. The bare beams stare down at me in judgment. In forty-eight hours, this space needs to look like the inside of a snow globe. Right now, it looks like the before photo in a renovation show.

“I am begging you,” I tell the lights. “Work with me. Do not do this to me three days before Christmas.”

They continue to do their best impression of a dead thing.

A footstep echoes in the doorway. “You talking to the decorations again, or did a guest sneak in and offend you?”

I turn to see my work bestie Holt leaning against the doorframe, beanie pushed back on his brown hair, cheeks pink from the cold. He takes in the strands of lights draped over the ladder, the boxes of ornaments, the clipboard clutched in my hand, and lets out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he says. “You’re in it.”

“I have a gala to decorate, three more event setups before that, and apparently every pre-lit garland in the Western Hemisphere has chosen this week to give up on life.” I hold up the dead strand, then sag. “How bad is it out there?”

“Front desk is holding,” Holt says. “Bar is slammed. Jovie sent word that she’s dropping off two trays of cookies for the staff in a bit, so morale is about to improve drastically.”

“At least someone is prepared,” I say, picturing Jovie laughing as she balances too many tins at once. “Any fires I should know about?”

Holt grimaces. “Only metaphorical ones. The heating in the Elk Wing is acting up again, but maintenance is on it. Oh, and the Secret Santa envelopes are up in the staff room.”

The words send a little shot of warmth through my chest, cutting through the stress.

“Already?” I ask.

He nods. “The draw box is gone, and there’s a present under your name. First round’s officially begun.”

My fingers tighten around the clipboard. I should stay here. I should keep wrestling with the lights and pretend I am not deeply invested in the lodge’s annual Secret Santa exchange like a kid waiting for the real Santa.

“How long have you been keeping that information confidential?” I ask.

“Since I got off shift twenty minutes ago,” Holt says. “I figured if I led with it, you’d sprint out of here and sprain your an ankle on a box of ornaments.”

“Umm, rude,” I glare at him, even as my heart pounds a little faster. “You could have saved me from twenty minutes of arguing with inanimate objects.”

“You love arguing with inanimate objects,” he says. “Besides, the ballroom will still be here in ten minutes. Go open your envelope.”

I glance around at the chaos. Half-decorated tree. Ladders. Tape. The single working strand of lights glowing defiantly in the corner.

“Fine,” I say. “If anyone asks, I’m engaging in critical staff morale activities.”

Holt gives me a little salute. “Tell that to Rhodes if you see him. He’s outside with Brenton trying to figure out how to put the giant wreath up without falling off the porch roof. Again.”

That image does dangerous things to my insides. Not the falling part. The Brenton part.

“I thought they learned their lesson last year,” I say, aiming for breezy. “Didn’t Rhodes sprain his wrist?”

“Yeah, but now he’s a reformed cowboy with a safety-conscious girlfriend,” Holt says. “Jovie is supervising from the ground. It’s all above aboard.”

Right. I’m sure.

I tuck a stray curl back behind my ear and set my clipboard down on the closest table.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “Fifteen, max.”

“Take twenty,” Holt says. “I’ll tell people the lights are just resting.”

I roll my eyes and head for the hall. Out here, the lodge hums with the low, steady energy that only happens during the holidays. The faint clink of plates from the dining room, the murmur of people in the lobby, the crackle of the big stone fireplace near the front desk.

And, underneath it all, the quiet excitement thrumming in my chest at the idea of a little red envelope with my name on it.

On my way, I glance toward the front windows. Outside, snow drifts lazily down in fat flakes, coating the pines and the cabins in white. The sky is soft and gray, the kind of winter light that makes everything feel like a postcard.

Right in front of the lodge, there is a ladder propped against the porch overhang. Rhodes is on it, strong shoulders bunched as he holds up one side of the giant wreath.

Brenton is on the snow-dusted porch beside him, broad and solid in his navy firefighter jacket, one gloved hand braced on the ladder, the other steadying the wreath.

Jovie stands below, hands on her hips, knit hat pulled low over her dark hair. I can see her mouth moving as she directs them, then she tips her head back and laughs at something Rhodes says. She looks so happy it makes my chest ache in the best way.

Brenton laughs too, that easy, rich sound I always feel in my stomach. He looks good with a little snow in his hair. He always looks good, which I try not to think about too often.

He glances toward the window, like he can feel someone watching. For one startled second, our eyes meet through the glass.

My heart skips a beat. I raise my hand in an awkward half-wave.

He smiles, slow and bright, and lifts his own hand in response.

I tear my gaze away and hurry down the hall to the staff room before I forget where I’m going. The overhead light buzzes softly as I push the door open and step inside.

The room is cramped but familiar. Lockers line one wall.

A small table with mismatched chairs sits under the bulletin board.

There is already a half-empty tray of cookies in the center of the table, along with a stained electric kettle and a box of tea bags.

The air smells like coffee, sugar, and fabric softener.

On the bulletin board, envelopes in alternating red and green are pinned in neat rows. Each one has a name written on the front in curling gold marker.

Greer.

My name is on a red envelope on the second row, third from the left. A small, neatly wrapped package is taped beneath it in brown paper with sprigs of printed evergreen.

My heart does a little somersault.

I step closer, fingers tingling, and open the package with more care than necessary. The paper gives way with a soft tearing sound. Inside is a small box, plain white, tied with a piece of red string.

There is a folded note tucked under the string.

My throat goes tight as I slide it out and unfold it.

For late-night ballroom sessions and early-morning cabin check-ins. You take care of everyone else. Let this help take care of you.

Merry almost-Christmas,

Your Secret Santa

I swallow past the lump in my throat and lift the lid of the box.

Inside is a pair of reusable hand warmers. Not the bulky, utilitarian kind we sell in the gift shop. These are small and pretty, with soft, stitches in deep green and cream. Delicate little evergreen branches are embroidered on the fabric.

I run my fingers over them, feeling the careful stitches. It’s so pretty.

How many people know I keep rubbing my hands together when I sprint from building to building without proper gloves because it is faster that way?

How many people have watched me shiver through late-night décor sessions in the ballroom and thought, She should really take better care of herself?

Not many.

Warmth spreads through my chest, tinged with a dangerous thread of yearning. It is one thing to get a generic mug or a box of chocolates. This is so personal I almost feel shy holding it.

“Wow,” I whisper.

I read the note again. You take care of everyone else. Let this help take care of you.

My eyes sting.

Greer. Do not cry over Secret Santa hand warmers.

I blink quickly, tuck the note back into the box, and hold the warmers in my palms. They fit perfectly, like they were picked for the shape of my hands.

Whoever drew my name noticed me. Really noticed.

I slide the box into my bag with a care that borders on reverent. The rules say we should not try to figure out who our Santa is. That defeats the purpose. But my mind immediately starts making a list anyway.

Lodge staff. Kitchen. Housekeeping. Maintenance. Holt. Jovie, but I don’t think she signed up for the exchange since she has Rhodes and the ranch to worry about. Front desk. The handful of town regulars who joined in. Maybe someone from the firehouse threw their name in the hat.

I shake my head. No. I refuse to ruin the fun of this by trying to shove it into a box too fast. The mystery is part of the magic.

Still, my heart does a little jump at the idea that maybe, maybe, one of the people who sees me day after day looked past the clipboard and the schedules and thought about what I might like just for myself.

A spark of guilt hits my chest. My first gift for my own person is still hidden in my room, wrapped in festive paper and waiting for delivery.

Not my person. My assigned name. Secret Santa assignment. That is all.

Except it does not feel like all.

The memory of drawing his name snaps into focus, as crisp as the moment it happened last week.

Everyone had crowded into the lobby, laughing and jostling around the big wooden bowl on the front desk. Jovie was overseeing, her eyes bright. Rhodes stood behind her, one arm around her waist, gaze soft on her face in that way he gets now that makes everyone else pretend not to see.

I had reached in, heart bumping with the thrill of the unknown, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. When I opened it, my stomach swooped.

Brenton.

I had almost dropped it right back in the bowl.

“Everything okay?” Jovie had asked, blinking at me with concern.