The Mechanics of Mistletoe - Liz Isaacson Page 0,26

a smile that wasn’t made of happiness.

“Maybe July too for you, then,” he said. “Big celebrations around the Fourth.”

“Nope,” she said. “Not July.”

He glanced at her again, looking left and right though surely no one came up here except those going to the Rhinehart Ranch. “Gotta be Christmastime, then,” he said.

“Close,” she said. “What day?”

“Christmas Day?” he guessed.

“No.” She shook her head, wishing this was a fun, flirty game they were playing. “There’s a huge parade and everything. The town goes all-out for me.”

“Christmas Eve,” he said. “The light parade.”

“That’s right.” She cast him a smile, but he wasn’t looking at her. She focused on the rolling hills as he navigated down them, thinking that this wasn’t the greenest or most visited part of Texas, but it was still beautiful. Sometimes everything could exist in shades of brown, from the fences to the dirt to the cattle, but it all possessed a charm that reminded her that life was good and worth living.

“I’ll remember that,” Bear said.

“We don’t celebrate my birthday at Christmas,” she said. “I’m so tired, and I work long hours every Christmas Eve. We usually do it the month before.” She folded her arms, the real reason for her early birthday celebration just beneath her tongue.

“I see,” he said. “Why’s that?”

“I just said—I’m tired and I work all day on my birthday for the parade. I don’t want a birthday party. They need a mechanic to rig all those floats, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said quietly. He pulled to a stop at the sign where the ranch road met the highway. He looked at her, his face open and unassuming. “I think there’s more to that.”

Sammy appreciated that he could sense when she wasn’t being forthcoming with him. “Heather and Patrick died in December,” she said. “My mother…disappears during that month.”

“I see.” He made the turn. “I’m sorry, Sammy.” A few seconds passed, and he added, “That’s not good.”

“No,” she agreed. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last five years, Bear, it’s that everyone experiences grief in different ways, at different times. It can sneak up on you like a thief in the night when you haven’t cried for months. It can come slowly or swiftly. It can look you straight in the face or hide behind you until you call it out. It’s more powerful sometimes and sometimes it just fades away.”

The silence in the cab felt absolute, and Sammy appreciated that Bear simply absorbed it. “I understand,” he said. “My father’s been gone for a while now, and I still grieve his passing.”

“Right,” she said with a nod. “So if Momma needs December to face her grief—or hide from it—she can have it. I’m okay.”

He looked at her with wonder in his expression, and instead of saying anything, he reached over and took her hand in his. He drew her arm toward him and kissed the back of her hand, then her knuckles. “You’re an amazing woman, Sammy.”

He tucked her hand in his and held it against his thigh. Sammy felt amazing in that moment, and she hadn’t felt like that in a long, long time.

“I hope I can celebrate your birthday with you this year,” he added. “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

Her voice stuck somewhere in her throat, because he was the one who was amazing. Amazing and wonderful, all wrapped up in a male package that really got Sammy’s heart pumping. So maybe twelve years of age difference didn’t matter.

As Bear turned down the road to get to his ranch, Sammy let go of some of the defenses she’d put in place to keep Bear at arm’s length. She didn’t need them anymore, because she didn’t want to keep him from getting closer to her.

She swallowed as he parked in the driveway at the homestead and looked at him. He was calm and steady, and Sammy breathed in with him.

“I should warn you,” he said. “My brothers are probably in the house, as well as my mother. If my friends thought me dating was a big deal, it might give my mother a heart attack.” He grinned and opened his door. “You ready for that?”

“Giving your mother a heart attack?” Sammy repeated, partly shocked and partly laughing. “Maybe I shouldn’t go in.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he mused. “You stay here, and I’ll go see what I can cobble together for lunch real quick. There’s four of you, and one of me.” He tilted his head for a moment. “I’ll