Page 28 of Wrecked on the Mountain

"Should I be worried?" I ask.

"Always," Betty laughs, patting my arm. "But that's half the fun."

I make my way toward their booth, and sure enough, Etta waves me over with the enthusiasm of a woman half her age.

"Jamie, dear!" she calls, adjusting her glasses. "Come see what we've created!"

Their setup is... impressive, actually. Display racks showing off cable-knit scarves in every color imaginable, chunky beanies with pompoms, and an entire section of matching couples' sets.

"Very nice, ladies," I say diplomatically.

"Oh, this is just the beginning," Mabel adds with a sweet smile that doesn't fool me for a second. "We've got special 'festival romance packages'—buy a scarf, get a matching beanie for that special someone."

"And," Etta leans in conspiratorially, "we may have made a few custom pieces for certain people who might need a little... encouragement."

I fold my arms over my chest. "What kind of encouragement?"

"The kind that involves sharing body heat," Mabel says innocently, holding up what appears to be a scarf designed for two people. "Isn't it clever?"

Before I can respond to that terrifying development, Frank Barrett's booming voice cuts across the festival grounds.

"Striker! These food vendors want to know where to dump their grease!"

"Behind Timber Tavern," I call back. "Charlie set up a disposal station."

Frank nods and stomps off, probably to terrorize some unsuspecting food truck operator with his grumbles and secret heart of gold.

That's the thing about this town. Everyone shows up when it matters.

Like today, for this amazing festival.

Rebecca never understood that. She saw Frank as some cranky old man who complained about everything. She never bothered to learn that he rebuilt Vivienne, the town librarian's, front porch for free after a storm one year, or that he keeps emergency supplies in his truck for anyone who needs them.

She saw the surface. The small-town quirks and limitations of a tight-knit community.

She never saw the heart.

I continue my rounds and I'm checking the sound system when Charlie Finnegan from Timber Tavern approaches.

"Fuel for the festival coordinator," he says, handing me a small tray of food with a grin. "Murphy's Smokehouse outdid themselves. That's bourbon-glazed pork with apple-fennel slaw and their signature chipotle aioli."

I take a bite and have to suppress a groan of pleasure.

The pork is tender enough to cut with a fork, the slaw adds the perfect acidic crunch, and the aioli has just enough heat to warm you from the inside.

"Fuck, that's good," I say around another bite.

"Right? I'm trying to convince Murphy to do a permanent popup at the tavern," Charlie continues, leaning against the nearby warming station. "Figure we could do elevated pub food, maybe some craft beer pairings—"

Over Charlie's shoulder I see the Mountain Rescue truck pulling into the parking area and my entire body goes on alert, like someone just flipped a switch. Because behind the wheel is Chase Morrison, and in the passenger seat...

Brooke.

Charlie's still talking about menu possibilities, but his words fade into background noise as I watch her step out of the truck.

Jesus fucking Christ.

She's wearing dark jeans that hug her perfect ass, paired with a fitted burgundy sweater that makes her auburn hair look likefire. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and when she turns to say something to Chase, I catch the flash of a smile that makes my chest do something uncomfortable.