Chapter 1

“Good morning, son. What are you doing outside on a dreadful morning like this?”

Grampa’s voice is loud and can probably be heard two counties over. I chuckle. Leave it to him to find someone he can speak to at—I glance at my watch—eight-fifteen on a Saturday morning when it’s raining cats and dogs outside. Frozencats and dogs.

I cut out more stars from the red flannel fabric printed with tiny white flowers I found at a garage sale. I already have a huge pile of them but need more so I can make plenty of ornaments to sell at tomorrow’s first Christmas market for the season.

“I’m sorry, but the Freemans moved out a couple months ago,” Grampa continues. Apparently, the person had answered Grampa and intends to visit the old neighbors. “Nah, I don’t know. They didn’t care much for me or Finn, so we barely spoke to them.”

“Hah,” I huff with a shake of my head. Ain’t that the truth. The first time Mr. Freeman saw me after Gramps and I moved into the house after Gramma died a couple years back, I wore a black kilt and bright pink over-knee socks. Mr. Freeman’s eyes wandered between my clothes and my face and didn’t seem to think the outfit went with the scruffy beard I was cultivating at the time, because he snapped his mouth shut with a sound that could be heard from our side of the fence, and his big nose curled upward as though he smelled something foul. I told Grampa after that Mr. Freeman probably would have preferred a rotting corpse in his backyard over me.

And if there’s one thing Grampa can’t stand, it’s someone attacking his beloved family, so he agreed with that loud booming laughter that always melts my heart. We kept a polite distance to the Freemans after that first awkward meeting.

“Why don’t you come inside for a second? We have fresh coffee.”

I still can’t hear the other person, but I put down my rotary cutter next to my sewing machine on the desk in the living room I use as a work space and walk to the kitchen. I have yet to meet someone who’ll say “no” to my grandfather, and I better make fresh coffee since I just gulped down the dregs leftover from breakfast.

It doesn’t take me long to make a new batch. Both Grampa and I are equally addicted to the dark bitter brew of the gods, and I can make coffee with my eyes closed. The machine is already gurgling happily when the front door opens, and two sets of footsteps enter the house.

“Finn, my boy, I found a frozen young man on the street in dire need of coffee,” Grampa yells, his voice booming through the house. He’s such a loud man; he can’t whisper if his life—or mine—depended on it.

“Already on it, Grampa,” I call back.

The rustle of clothing reaches me as I get mugs from the cupboard. Grampa’s Santa mug. My cartoon Rudolph with a humongous red nose. And I choose Uncle Ford’s Christmas tree mug for our mystery guest.

“Brrrr. Those raindrops are two degrees away from being ice bullets,” Grampa says.

“Yes, sir. Very cold.”

My ears perk at the unknown man’s voice. He sounds polite. Quiet. And his tone is deep and rumbly, the kind that could make a man’s body tremble and shiver if he were close enough.

“Stop perving on the poor man’s voice,” I mumble under my breath and rummage around the pantry in search for something to serve with the coffee, but all I find is an empty package of Oreos. I huff my annoyance. Grampa is sixty-seven and has yet to learn how to throw away empty boxes. How Gramma tolerated it all those years, I’ll never know.

“The weather outside really isfrightful,” Grampa says with a chuckle. “But not in the way Dean Martin meant it when he sang it, don’t ‘cha think?”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

“Please take off your shoes. Finn doesn’t like dirt on his floors.”

I roll my eyes. Way to make me seem like a stereotypical, apron-wearing housewife from the fifties in front of the hot-sounding man. Silly old coot.

Padding footsteps approach the kitchen, and I turn around, curious about the owner of that knee-weakening voice…

And forget how to breathe.

Holy crap, it’s not only the voice that has the power to liquefy the bones in my body—he’s got the looks to back it up.

Dark chocolatey hair falls softly across his forehead, a well-groomed sooty beard surround lips with a pronounced Cupid’s bow, and he has the warmest brown eyes I’ve seen in my life. He stands taller than Gramps—probably somewhere around my own six feet—but he’s more muscular compared to my lanky frame. Not that he’s a gym bunny or anything, but hidden under a tight, soft charcoal sweater are broad shoulders, a drool-worthy chest, and a narrow waist tapering off into hips to die for. His legs look like he’s a runner, and I swear the tight, faded jeans are painted on.