Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
With her gear in place, Mac points to the top of the hill. “I’ll get my practice runs in now,” she says then takes off, joining the other kids as they zoom down the hill.
At the base, Fable and I watch and by the time Mac begins her second run, Fable’s close to me, so we’re shoulder to shoulder.
I close my eyes for a quick second. Then, fuck it. I reach for her hand. She’s not wearing mittens right now, so our fingers slide together naturally.
Like we do this all the time. Hold hands as we…do life.
Temporarily, I remind myself.
When practice ends, Mac waves, a sign she’s ready to start. She turns and heads for the top of the hill. Fable squeezes my hand harder.
I say fuck it once more and press a quick, chaste kiss to her chilly cheek. A soft gust of air escapes her lips.
I tear my focus away and put it right on Mac. She’s ready and waiting with the other competitors, adjusting her helmet and goggles. All the participants line up, their colorful sleds ready to race down the snowy slope. Mayor Bumblefritz brings a red-and-white-striped megaphone to his mouth and shouts in a deep, booming voice, “Let the sledding competition begin!”
The sleds go zooming down the hill, snow flying in their wake. Mac’s sled shoots forward, and she skillfully navigates the twists and turns. A surge of pride fills me as I watch her speed along the slope. She crosses the finish line in first place, a wide grin on her face.
As Mac hops off her sled, I rush over to congratulate her. Fable joins us, a smile on her face as she declares, “You did it! You’re a rock star!”
But the part I like best is when Mac hugs Fable and says, “I’m so glad you saw it.”
The trouble is, I don’t think my daughter’s faking. And as I look toward the two of them, I know I’m not faking anything either.
35
THE THREE LUMBERJACKS
Wilder
Sometimes people surprise you. Like, say, Brady. That evening as I’m walking along Main Street toward the town square for the caroling competition, the little troll I want to send back to the bridge he crawled out from under catches up to me.
“How’s it going, big man? I crunched some numbers last night and I am ready-i-o to help you out,” Brady says, grabbing the chance to schmooze while Fable is several feet ahead, walking with her friends past A Likely Story. Mac’s back at the cabins playing board games with her friends and my sister’s kids.
“Did you now?” I ask, amazed he can’t take no for an answer.
“Sure did.”
I already turned him down at the shower. I could turn him down again. Especially since the more time I spend with Fable and the closer we become, the less Brady matters.
But then again, this asshole toyed with the woman I adore. The woman who made me a homemade wreath, a crocheted snowman, and Santa cufflinks. The woman who cheered on my daughter in sledding. The woman who insisted on being honest with my mother. The woman who wanted to know what my dreams are.
Fuck this punk.
But if I get to know him a little better, I can learn what makes him tick, and that’ll help me as we take him down in the Christmas competition. “Tell me, Brady-i-o. What do you have in mind?”
As we walk, he babbles on and on about his stock management skills and how he’s aces. Okay, the man thinks he’s good at everything. No surprise. He’s cocky, and that means he’s likely careless. When we reach the gazebo in the town square, he claps my shoulder like we’re best buds. “Admit it—I’m convincing you right now?” he asks jovially.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“How about if I win the caroling competition, you’ll definitely grant me an audience to make a formal pitch?”
Keeping a poker face, I mull on his offer. While I won’t be winning the singing competition—I can’t hit a single note—I doubt he will either. I’m quite familiar with the field. I’ve heard Aurora from the Sugar Plum Bakery, and she has the voice of a Christmas angel. He hasn’t heard the others. Once again, Brady’s playing chess with the wrong guy.
“Fine,” I say, confident he’ll lose to Aurora and be bested by his own misplaced bravado. “You’re on.”
He pumps a fist. “You won’t regret it, boss man!”
He’s right. I won’t. The goal is to take him down, and even if I’m not the one directly doing it, I’m on the right track.
He rushes ahead, catching up with Iris, whispering something in her ear that leads her to smack a kiss to his cheek. I clench my fists. The sight of the two of them pisses me off. Even if Fable’s over him, I hate that she was ever hurt at all. That she felt ashamed. That he made her feel small.