Page 9 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

"Festival opens tonight," she says, wrapping both hands around her cup. "Six o'clock. Are you going?"

"I go every year."

"Willingly?"

"Whisper Vale has two thousand people. If you skip, everyone notices."

"Wow. Sold." She grins. "Walk with me?"

"To the festival."

"To the festival. At six. You can frown at things. I'll pretend we're having fun."

A laugh almost escapes. I catch it. Drink my coffee. "Fine."

"You're really good at pretending things don't make you happy. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"My ex-wife. Frequently."

The words come out sharper than I mean them to. Ivy doesn't flinch. Just takes a sip, watching the treeline.

"Well. She was wrong about a lot of things."

Quiet statement. No pity. No prying. Just a twenty-six-year-old woman sitting on my porch in an oversized flannel, offering me grace at seven in the morning with cheap general store coffee.

Something cracks in my chest. A small thing. Hairline.

"Six o'clock," I say. "Don't be late."

"I'm always late."

"I know. Tony warned me."

She's twelve minutes late.

I wait on the path between our cabins with my hands in my jacket pockets, telling myself this isn't a date. Neighbors walking to a community event. Checking in on my buddy's sister. The fact that I changed my shirt twice before settling on a clean henley means absolutely nothing.

Ivy comes through the trees in jeans, boots, a fitted sweater under a denim jacket. Her hair is down, dark and wavy past her shoulders. Lip gloss. She put on lip gloss.

"Sorry. Couldn't find my jacket."

"You own one jacket?"

"I own two. The other one has a coffee stain from 2024 that I've decided is part of its personality." She falls into step beside me. "How far is it?"

"Ten minutes. Downhill."

The path to town cuts through the pines and opens onto Main Street, which Whisper Vale has decorated within an inch of its life. Hay bales. Pumpkins. String lights between the lampposts. A banner over the general store reads HARVEST FESTIVAL in hand-painted letters that are slightly crooked because Patty Cole insisted on doing them herself.

Ivy stops at the edge of the street and stares.

"Oh my God."

"It's a lot."

"It's everything. Look at this." She grabs my forearm to pull me forward, then drops it like the contact surprised her. "Sorry. I'm a grabber. Tony hates it."

My forearm burns where her fingers were. Five seconds of contact and I can still feel each one.