Wreathed By the Christmas Mountain Man (Mistletoe Ridge #5)

Chapter 1

Merry

The first snow of the season always makes people act a little unhinged.

In my case, it makes me drive three hours into the mountains on a Tuesday with an empty trunk, a travel mug of lukewarm coffee, and a single, laser-focused mission.

Get the wreaths. Get out.

I grip the steering wheel as Mercury Ridge's main street comes into view, all twinkle lights and wreaths and postcard-perfect charm.

The kind of town that looks like it was built specifically for Christmas movie montages.

There's a little square with a tree already up—a towering blue spruce strung with white lights that glow against the darkening sky.

A gazebo wrapped in fresh garland anchors the center, and a banner strung between two lampposts reads:

WELCOME TO MERCURY RIDGE

Beneath that, someone has hung a homemade sign, paint scrawled on a board, that says, “Where the mountain men are hotter than Mercury!”

I snort, even though I'm tired enough to cry.

"A hot mountain man?" I mutter to myself. "Where do I sign up for one of those?”

The wipers squeak across the windshield, leaving faint arcs of clarity before the snow dots the glass again.

The snowfall isn't heavy yet, but it's steady, purposeful.

Flakes spiral in the air like someone shook a snow globe right over my hood, each one catching the glow from the streetlamps before disappearing into the growing drifts along the curb.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder just as I come to a stop sign in the middle of town. I glance at my phone to see a text from my assistant back at the shop.

Please tell me you're getting these wreaths. People are begging for them like they're Taylor Swift tickets.

I glance behind me to make sure no one is waiting at the stop sign, and then I tap out a reply with one hand.

On my way. I will return victorious.

Because I have to.

I run Merry & Bright Boutique in Knoxville, Tennessee. It's my pride, my paycheck, and my whole life from October through Valentine's Day.

With a name like Merry, I was destined for a career in the Christmas business. I wasn’t even born in December. My mom’s just a fan of creative spellings. Just ask my sister Sylveeah.

Every year, my store sells a ton of wreaths, but ever since some influencer posted a video of handmade wreaths made in Mercury Ridge—close-ups of glossy winterberries nestled against thick pine boughs, dried orange slices catching the light, and velvet ribbon tied in perfect bows—my customers have become absolutely feral.

I've made wreaths. I can make wreaths in my sleep.

But these… these are the ones everyone wants.

And the only person who makes them? A man named Rowan Hale.

I check the address again as my GPS announces, in its cheery robot voice, that I've arrived at my destination.

It's the little shop that featured the wreaths. It’s charming, with a painted sign that says MERCURY RIDGE MERCANTILE and a bell that jingles as I push through the door.

Warmth hits me like a hug. The place smells like cinnamon and pine and something buttery, like fresh cookies pulled from the oven moments ago.

Wooden shelves are stocked with local jams in jewel-toned glass jars, hand-poured candles with labels that promise scents like "Winter Hearth" and "Evergreen Dreams," knit hats in cheerful reds and greens, and ornaments that look like they were carved by hand.

A display near the front has a stack of flyers that read:

MERCURY RIDGE HOLIDAY MARKETSATURDAYS THROUGH DECEMBER

Behind the counter, a woman in a red sweater looks up from a register. She has silver hair pulled into a loose bun and bright eyes that flick to my scarf, then my coat, then the keys in my hand like she's clocking me for what I am.

An outsider.

"Morning," she says, voice warm but sharp around the edges.

"Hi." I push my hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of the peppermint lip gloss I'd swiped on at my last gas station stop. "I'm looking for Rowan Hale."

Her brows lift. Just slightly. But it's enough to tell me I've said something interesting.

"Well," she drawls, setting down the pen she'd been holding, "Is that so?"

I blink. "Sorry?"

She sets her hands flat on the counter like she's settling in for entertainment. "What do you want with Rowan?”

I give her my most professional smile. “I own a holiday-themed shop in Knoxville, and I'd like to place a wholesale order for wreaths. I emailed him and—"

"And he didn't email you back," she finishes with a nod.

"Right."

She leans forward a little, elbows resting on the polished wood. "Honey, Rowan hasn't answered an email since… I don't know, the Obama administration?"

Heat creeps into my cheeks. "Okay, well. I drove all the way here, so is there a way to contact him? A phone number?"

A soft laugh escapes her, the kind that says I'm adorable in my ignorance. "Cell service doesn't even behave up where he lives. And if you do manage to reach him, he'll probably think it's a telemarketer and throw the phone in the snow."

"That's… extreme."

"That’s Rowan."

I clamp down on my sigh, feeling the day's exhaustion settling into my shoulders. "Look. I'm not trying to bother him. I just need to buy wreaths. A lot of them. I can pay today, and I will pay extra for the rush order."

At that, her eyes narrow, like she's weighing me.

Not my money. Me.

Outside, the wind picks up. Snow taps the windows in quick little bursts, the way rain does before it becomes a storm. The sound is sharper now, insistent. I glance toward the glass and notice how the flakes have grown thicker, more aggressive.

The woman glances toward the glass, then back to me. Her expression shifts, something calculating giving way to something almost mischievous.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Merry," I say. “Like Merry Christmas.”

Her mouth quirks. "Of course it is."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the universe has a sense of humor," she says, and then, before I can respond, she reaches under the counter and pulls out a small paper bag.

She slides it toward me.

Inside is a thick, golden cookie the size of my palm, the surface crackled and dusted with coarse sugar.

"Ginger molasses," she says. "You'll want that."

I stare at it. "Why?"

"Because if you're going up to Rowan’s cabin, you're going to need sugar, courage, and a little bit of luck."

My stomach flips. "His cabin? I don’t know that I should bother him at home…”

“I thought you said you wanted to find Rowan?” Her eyes glitter with something between amusement and mischief.

I swallow. "I do.”

She reaches for her pen and scribbles on the back of one of the holiday market flyers, her handwriting small and precise.

"This is the turnoff," she says, tapping the paper. "You'll drive up Old Ridge Road until it's more pothole than pavement. Keep going until you see a split-rail fence and a big pine with a lightning scar down the trunk—runs from top to bottom, you can't miss it. You'll think you're lost."

"I grew up I Tennessee," I tell her. "I’m no stranger to back roads.”

She snorts. "Then you'll be right at home. When you see the fence, take the left fork. Not the right. The right takes you to the Hollow and you do not want to end up down there in weather like this."

She pauses, then adds, more gently, "If the weather gets too bad, turn back."

"I'll be fine," I say automatically, because I've built a whole career on make-it-work moments like this.

She studies me again, then pushes the paper closer. Outside, the wind rattles the shop's front window. "Rowan's place is the last cabin before the tree line. You'll see smoke if he's home."

"And if he's not?"

Her smile turns knowing.

"Oh," she says. "He's home."

I fold the paper and tuck it into my pocket. "Thank you."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Just… don't be surprised if he growls at you. His mama tried, but the boy has always been a grump."

"I've dealt with grumpy men," I say.

Her laugh is louder this time, genuine. "Mountain men are a different breed, honey.”

I lift my chin, cookie bag in hand. "I can handle it."

"Mmm." She hums, unconvinced. "What's your shop called?"

"Merry & Bright."

"Of course it is," she says again, like the universe is truly out here doing comedy bits.

I head for the door, but her voice stops me as my fingers touch the cold metal handle.

"And Merry?"

I turn.

Her expression shifts from amused to serious. Outside, the snow is coming down faster now, thickening into white streaks that blur the edges of the buildings across the street.

"Good luck.”

I step back out into the snow, pulling my scarf tighter. The wind cuts through my coat immediately, and I duck my head against it as I hurry to my car.

Get the wreaths. Get out.

That's the plan.

But as I start the engine and watch the snow begin to accumulate on my windshield in thick, determined layers, I have a sinking suspicion the universe has other ideas.

And somewhere up on that mountain, a reclusive wreathe-making grump is completely unaware that I'm coming.