Chapter 67
Ellie's POV
"We should probably—" Jackson started, gesturing toward the edge of the ceremonial platform.
"Yeah," I agreed quickly, grateful for the excuse to move.
We stepped down from the raised area where the photo shoot had taken place, the red carpet giving way to packed gravel. Around us, the ceremony was winding down—staff members were breaking down the sound equipment, guests clustered in small groups chatting, and construction workers had begun returning to their posts now that the official proceedings were finished.
I was so focused on not thinking about Jackson's arm around my shoulders—about the way his hand had felt resting against my upper arm, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my performance outfit—that I almost didn't notice the figure approaching from the ceremonial area.
Almost.
The silver-haired man I'd seen standing beside Isabelle during the groundbreaking was walking toward us with unhurried grace, leaning lightly on an intricately carved wooden cane. Even from a distance, I could see the craftsmanship—the handle appeared to be shaped like a wolf's head, the shaft decorated with flowing patterns that caught the afternoon light.
"Ah," Jackson said softly beside me. His posture straightened, his expression shifting into something warmer, more deferential. The kind of natural respect you show to someone you genuinely admire. "Don."
The older man's weathered face broke into a smile as he drew closer. He was probably in his seventies, but he moved with the confidence of someone much younger. His suit was impeccably tailored, his silver hair swept back from his forehead, and his dark eyes sparkled with intelligence and warmth.
"Jackson!" His voice carried a melodious Spanish accent. "I was hoping to catch you before you left. That performance—magnifico! Truly exceptional work."
Jackson inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Don. That means a great deal coming from you." He turned slightly toward me. "Don, this is Ellie Green, my dance partner at CVU. Ellie, this is Don Miguel—an old friend of my grandfather's."
I extended my hand automatically, my wolf senses automatically assessing him in that split second before contact. Human. Completely, utterly human. No pack scent, no hint of the wild—just the warm smell of aged wood, linseed oil, and something faintly spicy like tobacco. But there was something in his eyes, a knowing quality that made me think he'd spent enough time around the Martinez family to recognize what they truly were.
Don Miguel's handshake was firm despite his age, his palm slightly rough—the hands of someone who still worked with his craft. "Encantado, señorita. Any partner of Jackson's is someone I'm delighted to meet."
"Miguel," I repeated, the pieces suddenly clicking together. My eyes widened. "Wait—Don Miguel? The woodcarver?"
His eyebrows rose, genuine pleasure crossing his features. "You know my work?"
"Know it?" I couldn't keep the excitement from my voice. "My father has been obsessed with your hiking staffs for months! He showed me the catalog from the Christie's auction last year—said your pieces were like functional sculpture, art you could actually use. He's been trying to get tickets to one of your exhibitions, but they always sell out before he can—" I caught myself, realizing I was rambling. "I'm sorry. I just... I didn't expect to meet you here."
Don Miguel's smile deepened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "No need to apologize, querida. It's always wonderful to meet someone who appreciates the craft." He tilted his head, studying me with those sharp artist's eyes. "Your father collects, then?"
"Mostly handcrafted items—Native American art, contemporary woodwork. He loves anything with history and skill behind it." I hesitated, then added, "He especially loves hiking and mountain climbing, so your walking sticks are kind of his holy grail."
Jackson made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. When I glanced at him, he was smiling—that genuine, unguarded smile I'd only seen a few times. "That's pretty obvious, actually."
I blinked. "What?"
"Your dad's hiking hobby." His eyes were warm with amusement. "The flannel shirt and Merrell hiking boots kind of gave it away."
My jaw dropped slightly. "You noticed what my dad was wearing?"
"Hard not to." Jackson's smile turned slightly sheepish. "Those boots were pretty distinctive—the Moab 2 Mid GTX model, right? My uncle has the same pair. Says they're the best for technical trails."
Don Miguel was watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read—something knowing and pleased, like he was watching a play unfold exactly as he'd hoped. His eyes moved between Jackson and me, lingering on the space between us, the easy way we stood close together.
Oh God, I thought, heat creeping up my neck. He thinks we're...
But Don Miguel didn't say anything. Instead, his smile just grew a bit wider, more indulgent. "A hiking enthusiast," he mused. "Well then. I think I have something that would suit him perfectly."
"Sir?" I asked uncertainly.
"I'm working on a new series of staffs specifically designed for serious mountain trails. Lightweight ash wood, enhanced grip patterns, reinforced ferrules." His eyes sparkled. "One of them should go to someone who will actually use it properly, yes? Not just display it in a case."
My heart started pounding. "Don Miguel, I couldn't possibly ask you to—"
"You're not asking." He waved his free hand dismissively, his carved cane tapping lightly against the gravel. "I'm offering. Consider it..." He glanced at Jackson, something affectionate and paternal in his expression. "A gift, for a friend of someone very important to our family."
Jackson's ears went slightly red. "Don—"