Noelle
“This is all wrong,” I tell Martin, the city parks director. “The parking lot needs to be reserved entirely for the wedding.”
“You can’t reserve every single parking spot on a mountain, Noelle,” he says, cocking an eye at me like I’m missing something.
“Then where will the guests park?”
“Not sure, but it’s not my problem. You’re the one who wanted an outside wedding on a snow-covered mountain at Christmas.”
“Just the ceremony,” I say, irritated. “The reception will be down at the lodge.”
“You’ll have the parking issue here, no matter how you dice it. It would be easier if the entire thing was just down the mountain at the lodge. That’s what everyone else does.”
“I’m not everyone else,” I say indignantly.
“You mean Sophia isn’t everyone else?” he corrects with a smirk.
“Right,” I stammer. “Sophia isn’t everyone else.” Flustered, I exhale. I keep trying to tell myself this isn’t my wedding — because it isn’t. I’m just the maid of honor. But my BFF is MIA and I’m the one running the show.
And it’s sort of turned into my show, not hers.
Martin runs a hand over his graying hair. “How many guests did you say were coming?”
Cringing I answer, “Three hundred have RSVP’d.”
Martin chuckles. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna need a plan B when it comes to getting those guests up here in the snow in twenty-degree weather.”
I know what he’s saying — it is ambitious. But it would be so beautiful. The place we are standing is the most beautiful location in all of Linesworth. The most romantic too. The vista from here is breathtaking. The photographs would be wedding magazine worthy.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell Martin. “Thanks for meeting me here to look everything over.”
“Of course, Noelle. I’ll do what I can for you. But you know, if you weren’t everyone’s favorite, I don’t think so many people would be showing up for the big day. Sophia hasn’t lived in Linesworth since she graduated high school. People are only coming for the wedding to support you.”
I swallow. “Sophia is more of a town sweetheart than I could ever be. And her family has always been so good to me, I want this day to feel special for her.”
Martin squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve always been special, Noelle. Maybe one day you’ll find your someone special too.”
“Maybe,” I say, doubting it. I made a list of my ideal man when I was twelve years old and the list just gets longer the older I become. Now, at twenty-six I’m pretty sure there will never be a man who makes my list, no matter how naughty or nice they are. My list is more curated than Santa’s.
“Do you know who that is?” Martin asks as we walk back to our cars in the currently empty parking lot.
I recognize it as the contractor’s truck. He was supposed to be here hours ago though, and to say I'm irritated at his lack of punctuality, is an understatement. He seemed like such a nice old man too, not a flake who arrives three hours late. I expected the arbor to be half done by the time I got off my shift at Three Sisters.
I tell Martin goodbye, then turn my attention to this lazy carpenter. But when the man walks around his truck and comes into view, I realize it isn’t Dean Nicholas at all.
It’s Brooks, from the bakery.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I say, squeezing my gloved hands together. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting you,” I say as he steps closer. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me though, and I wonder if that instant spark I felt when we met earlier today was just a fluke.
It sure didn’t seem like a fluke.
But now this rugged mountain man is running a hand over his beard, not even giving me the time of day.
“Hello, Noelle,” he says finally. He is in a thick Carhartt jacket and leather gloves. A black knit beanie covers his head and it makes him look insanely masculine. His thick, dark beard is a contrast to the bright white snow and my stomach does a thousand somersaults.
I know I said no man could fit the bill of my list… but as far as physical attributes go, Brooks manages to tick every single box.
Which is probably why I am all sorts of flustered in this moment… all kinds of fluttery.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “So, where is the arbor going?”
“Um, sorry. Why are you here?” I ask, tugging my tote bag higher on my parka covered shoulder. My toes are on the very edge of freezing, after my twenty-minute conversation out here with Martin. Maybe he was right, maybe having every guest trek all the way here for the ceremony is a terrible idea.
“Right. My dad, Dean, he fell. He said he sent a text, but that you never responded. Assumed you were busy. Anyways, he broke his foot, if you can believe it, and so I offered to help fill in.”
“Are you qualified?” I know my tone could come off as intense… but in reality, it’s just concern. This is Sophia’s wedding we’re talking about. It has to be perfect.
He snorts. “I think so.”
“What are your credentials?” I ask eyes narrowed. No matter how handsome this man may be, I’m not just going to trust any old lumberjack who waltzes to the top of this mountain and tells me he knows how to use a hammer.
Though, looking at Brooks right now, all I can think about is his other hammer.
I unzip my jacket, suddenly feeling kinds of hot and bothered. My throat has gone dry. So why am I thinking about Brooks’ bits? This is not the time.
“I don’t have Wi-Fi up here or I’d show you my website, my portfolio if that’s what you’re after. But I must say, I usually build homes, not gazebos.”
“Arbor,” I clarify. “Not a gazebo.”
Brooks chuckles. “You’re the bride, whatever you say goes.”
I frown. “I’m not the bride.”
“No? Uh…” he turns in a circle, looking for something, or someone. “Sorry, my parents said Noelle was coordinating all this. I assumed it was you. But maybe there is another Noelle getting married on this mountain next week?”
“No, I mean, I’m planning the wedding, I’m just not the bride.”
Brooks lifts his eyebrows. “You’re the best friend.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m the maid of honor. It’s Sophia’s wedding.”
Brooks seems to be biting back a smile. “I see, that makes more sense.”
“What does?” I ask, frowning. And freaking freezing. I’ve been out here way too long.
“Nothing,” he says, lifting his hands in the air as if asking for a pass.
I cross my arms. “I’m waiting.”
“Okay,” he laughs. “My mom mentioned that you were a little bossy.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I can deal with intense. “I’ve been called worse by men, I suppose.”
Brooks smiles. “Such as?”
I twist my lips, never being one to hold back. “Rigid. Overly organized. Freakishly focused. You know, those charming qualities most men would die to get in bed.” I smack my hand over my mouth. Did I seriously just say that to a stranger?