Page 17 of The Holiday Exchange

I reach for a slice of toast. “Snowmobile ride first.”

“Oh shoot.” Mom winces. “Sorry to wreck your plans, but Dad took one of them to work this morning.”

“No worries, we’ll make do.” I send Dawson a reassuring smile.

When we’re finished eating, Dawson helps load the dishwasher while I clean the frying pan. Then we head to the mudroom to get suited up for the cold. Dawson pulls down hisknit cap, zips his coat, then follows me out the door to the snowmobile.

“It’s a two-seater, so you’ll have to ride on back.” Doubt creeps in. “Or we can wait until both are available.”

“I don’t mind,” Dawson says easily. I nod and start the engine. Once I’m seated, he hops on behind me. “Maybe it’s better this way my first time.”

“Maybe,” I force out because it’s hard to concentrate with him sliding his hands around my waist. His breath is on my neck, and the last time I’ve been in this position with a guy I liked was Mark in high school. Shaking that thought away, I rev the engine. “Hang on.”

“Holy shit!” He grips me tighter as I take off across the field with increasing speed. I let out awhoopbecause that first rush is always invigorating, and I feel him huff a laugh against my skin.

The path I follow is one I know like the back of my hand, could probably do it with my eyes shut. I head through the pine forest and all the way back to the saplings planted just last year. Beyond that is the pumpkin patch picked over from the autumn harvest and young apple trees that have yet to bear fruit. I make a mental note to ask Dad about it.

“This is great!” Dawson shouts into the wind as the cold bites my cheeks. I notice that his grip on me has loosened the more comfortable he’s become.

Near the foothills of the mountains, I slow down, coming to a stop. We catch our breath and shake out our legs before Dawson pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps photos of the picturesque backdrop. I follow Sip and Savor on social media, where he mostly posts daily specials, but now I wonder if he has a personal page.

“I can’t believe how beautiful it is here—and exhilarating.”

I grin at his genuine enthusiasm. It’s so refreshing. “Yeah, suppose it is.”

“I’m determined to help you remember.” He slides his phone back in his pocket. “So what now?”

“Ride back and then head into town for lunch?”

“Sounds great.” Guilt crosses his features. “You sure you don’t have to help at Blooming Acres? I can always?—”

“Maybe later when it’s busier. Mom will be there too, getting ready for the fair.”

“It sounds like a lot. I’d be happy to pitch in again.”

“It’s only a table and tent where we sell mostly the pine cone wreaths Mom makes and holiday trinkets. We can definitely help load boxes and set up shop the day of.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Of course you do,” I tease. “Want to drive back?”

“Yeah?” A big smile breaks over his face. “If you’re sure.”

“Absolutely. Go slow at first until you get your bearings.”

Once settled on the seat, I direct him to start the engine, and then I’m the one holding on to him from behind. The warmth I feel radiating through my body from the simple act of being close to Dawson is silly. I must be romanticizing things again. Or just happy I get to experience this with someone, even if it’s pretend.

He’s shaky at first as we navigate toward the familiar path but gains confidence by the time the house comes into view. “Promise I can do that again before the week is over,” he says once we park.

“Definitely.”

We hightail it inside to get warm and change out of our heavy snow gear. About an hour later, we’re in my car and heading to town. He noticed the shops on Main Street on our way into Bright’s Hollow, but I can feel the excitement rolling off him as I find a place to park. We walk for a bit, checking out storefronts and decorations, Dawson acting like a kid in a Hallmark candy shop.

“Do you mind if we stop in there?” he asks, eyeing Giving Grace, the gift shop owned by Mrs. Grace since before I was born.

I follow him inside, and when the bell above the door jangles, she and her counter staff greet us warmly. Some strands of her brown hair are starting to gray, but other than that she seems unchanged, still wearing her characteristic flowy tops and skirts. “You get over here and give me a hug.”

As I step into the embrace, her perfume assaults my nostrils. I’ve never been a big fan of the spicy, earthy scent of patchouli, but there are worse smells, and besides, it reminds me of home.