Oh, Fudge (Hot Cakes #5) - Erin Nicholas Page 0,28

couldn’t say there was much call for large outdoor heaters.

“You must be Mitch.”

He turned at the male voice behind him. He smiled at the older man approaching. “Yes, I am. You were warned?”

The man laughed and extended his hand as he came to stop. “I’m Phil Custer. I agreed to help set up the booths and stage and everything here. I was the one that ran into the no-power problem.”

The man was in his late sixties or so and wore his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail under his stocking cap. Even though it was early January and the ground was covered with snow, the man’s skin was tanned and wrinkled in the familiar way of so many people who worked outdoors.

“I’m happy to take a look,” Mitch said, shaking Phil’s hand.

“Good deal. I’m good with hauling and building but not so much with electrical and such,” the other man said. “I was an over-the-road trucker all my life. I can look at most motors and know what I’m doing and I thought I could maybe figure this wiring problem out, but this is a little beyond me.” He looked around the square with a grin.

“Well, no guarantees that I can make it work either. I know motors and wires and plumbing and all of that,” Mitch said. “But sometimes shit just breaks and you gotta start over.”

Phil nodded. “That’s for sure. Really hoping that’s not the case here though. Not sure we’ve got time to rewire all of it.”

Mitch looked around. There was a lot to check out. But if nothing was working, it had to be a pretty centralized problem.

Phil showed him around and he got to work.

And thinking.

A long-distance relationship? Was that what he wanted with Paige? Could they make that work? Did he even have the first clue how to do that?

No, he didn’t have the first clue. But yes, he thought maybe he did want it. Not the distance so much, but Paige. He wanted her.

He wasn’t a relationship guy, really. Short distance or long distance. But hell, maybe long distance was the way to go. He wouldn’t have to be sweet and thoughtful every day that way.

By the time he’d found the wiring problem, fixed it, and had the square lit up, the sun had dropped behind the horizon. The glow of the white lights reflecting off the snow made him smile.

“Nicely done!” Phil said, joining him in front of the stage.

“Thanks. Looks good.”

“It really does, thanks to you. Everyone will be so happy to know that things will be ready and working tomorrow. Thank you.” Phil clapped him on the shoulder.

Mitch couldn’t help his grin. This felt good. It was just some electrical wiring. It had taken him less than an hour. But this kind of work always made him feel good.

It was productive and it mattered. It was behind-the-scenes stuff. Stuff that most people attending the festival wouldn’t even think about, but it made a difference. Without it, people would notice. They’d notice the cold cider and the lack of light and music. Fixing that wiring mattered. Just like fixing broken pipes at his grandma’s restaurant and repairing tires on the bus that brought tourists to his cousins’ swamp boat tours and repairing the motors on the boats all mattered.

It was stuff that the tourists, and sometimes even his family, didn’t really think about but without which, things wouldn’t work and wouldn’t be as good as they could be.

He didn’t need recognition for it. Just seeing those lights glowing and knowing that tomorrow the cider would be hot was enough for him.

“My pleasure,” he told Phil.

“If you’re going to keep working outside in January, you need to get yourself a good pair of gloves,” Phil said, noticing Mitch’s red hands.

Mitch rubbed them together and then shook them. “I’ll admit I didn’t come prepared to be outside in this weather.”

“Well, here.” Phil pulled his own gloves off. “Damn, boy, I’m sorry I didn’t notice before now.” He handed the gloves to Mitch.

“Oh, I couldn’t have worked with those on anyway,” Mitch said, holding up a hand. The bulky gloves would have gotten in the way of the fine work he’d needed to do on the wires.

“They can warm you up now, then.”

“I can’t take your gloves.”

“I’ve got a dozen pairs at home,” Phil said with a laugh, waggling the gloves. “These were just the first I grabbed. I’m not attached.”

Mitch grinned.

“And,” Phil went on, “I’m guessing you might have more need