Chapter 19 #2
I grimace at the folder on the table. “Let’s hope we can find ‘the one’ tonight.
” I read through more sob stories, and my heart’s both torn and wary.
It’s a conflicting task. You want to believe these people, but it’s tough to tell if they’re being honest. I blow out a breath. “How’s it going with you?”
“I like this one.” Leo hands me a letter.
I quickly scan it. A woman is asking for help on behalf of her neighbor, whose husband was injured at work. The couple is trying to adjust to their new circumstances. It doesn’t exactly specify the need, but I assume it’s financial. “Why this one?”
He shrugs. “Because the writer isn’t trying to pitch a ‘woe is me’ story. She simply states the facts. If anything, she’s underselling, like she’s embarrassed to ask. I think there’s more to the story.”
Hmm. It’s an interesting take. I put a blue “maybe” sticky note at the top of the letter.
“What about you?” he asks. “How’s it coming?”
“I’ve been able to reject at least ten. People ask for extravagant things without a solid reason. Some dude wants a boat just because he loves summers on the lake. Well”—I glance down at the paper—“Justin Dodd, that does sound fun, but you don’t see me buying a fifty grand Sea Ray.”
Leo sits forward, a sudden interest brightening his dark eyes. “What do you want?”
“Huh?”
“You’re always looking after other people and their needs. Caregiving for your gran. Weightlifting to help others, even though you hate it. Volunteering at the senior center. Talking up your best friend instead of taking any attention for yourself.”
I send him a questioning look.
He gives a guilty smile. “I overheard you at the gala tell some guys that your friend was the fifth runner-up for Miss Ohio or something like that.”
Tilly would faint at the demotion to fifth place. But still, I understand what he’s getting at. “Ah, yeah.”
“Not a word about yourself.”
“I don’t mind. I’m her hype girl.”
“You’re everyone’s hype girl.” He gets up and leaves the room. I have no idea how or why the topic switched focus to me, but I sense the need to play some conversation dodgeball to duck away from it. He returns with a sheet of paper and a pen. “Here you go.”
“What am I doing, exactly?”
“You’re creating a list of what you want.” He takes the pen and writes Greta’s Christmas Wish List at the top.
I don’t reach for the pen he’s offering. “Why?”
“It just seems like a question you never ask for yourself.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” I glance at the stack of letters. “I’m grateful I don’t have huge needs. But as for wants?” Gran gave me the store and the apartment above it. I’m taken care of. “I guess I really don’t want anything.”
He’s not letting this drop. Instead, he seems more invested. “What about want in terms of hopes and dreams?”
“Is this some kind of psychological strategy to get me to pick the right candidate?”
He drops next to me on the floor, far closer than before. “No, this is only me being interested in a girl and wanting to know what makes her happy.”
Oh my gosh. If I was blank before, my mind’s definitely empty now. “May I get back to you on this?”
He eyes me for a second, then relents with a smile. “Yeah.”
“Good.” I fold up the paper and slip it into my purse. “Now it’s my turn to pick you apart.”
“Can’t wait,” he says good-naturedly.
“Your house is beautiful.” I look around.
“Seriously, it’s stunning. And yet … it lacks something.
” Listen to me criticizing a million-dollar home filled with expensive antiques.
When I said it reminded me of a museum, I meant it.
“It just doesn’t seem lived in. There aren’t any personal touches.
Nothing that makes it stand out as a safe haven. Which is what a home’s all about.”
He presses his lips together. “You’re right.” He kicks his legs out and crosses his ankles. “It has the personality of my grandfather. Cold. Detached.”
“That’s how he was?”
“When I visited as a kid, I hardly saw him or my grandmother. I was with nannies. Then as a teen, just left to myself.”
Add that to what he told me about his parents always being abroad. “Wow, you must’ve been lonely.” As an only child in the house with older guardians, I certainly understood that isolated feeling. Though Gran and Pap always made sure to include me.
“I didn’t know any other way.” He glances around as if looking at the place with fresh eyes. “When I returned to Silver Creek, I debated moving back in here. It doesn’t really hold good memories for me.”
A surge of boldness overtakes me, holding for a breathless moment. “You can create some.”
His gaze pierces mine. “I can see that.”
It’s warm. Too warm. And to avoid his intense focus, I avert my eyes to a bare spot by the fire. “You don’t have a tree.” I suddenly realize. “You don’t have anything Christmas-y.”
He expels a heavy sigh. “I bought a tree and stuff last year but never took anything out of the boxes. The fire kinda threw me.”
The man fights fires regularly, but he’s referring to the fire. The one that claimed an elderly man, leaving behind a broken-hearted widow. “Do you still have the tree?”
“In the garage.” He catches on to my reasoning. “Want to help me put it up?”
I brighten. “You helped me decorate The Memory Bank. It’s only fair.”
He stands and helps me up. “Let’s get to it then.” He leads me to the garage, where he hoists the massive tree box on his shoulder like some lumberjack. I grab the designated containers of decorations.
We return to the living room, and he clears space for everything. Using a knife, he slices through the box and opens the flaps.
“Stop,” I say as he begins to pull out the artificial limbs.
“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me I’m already messing up?”
“Traditions!” I exclaim like a madwoman.
His face resembles the Leo of Last December. The confused brow that makes my fingertip tingle in want of smoothing it out, and my heart yearns in want of him to experience all he’s missed out on growing up.
I try to coax him along. “When putting up the tree, don’t you have certain things you do?”
He glances at the tree box, then at me. “Like spreading out the limbs to make it look more natural?”
“No. Creating memories and traditions go hand in hand. Like when I put the tree up at my house, I always watch White Christmas because that’s what we did every year.”
“Yeah, don’t have any of those.” His tone doesn’t hold traces of regret or hurt. It’s steady, like he’s only stating the facts.
“Okay. Will you humor me?”
He meets my gaze. “I told you before, I’m yours to command.”
I sputter a nervous laugh. “Let’s start with this. What’s your favorite Christmas music?”
“I like the traditional ones. But nothing in particular.”
“Okay, Christmas movie?”
“Easy. Home Alone .”
I clasp my hands together. “Nice! We can watch it during or after we put up the tree.”
He pauses.
I still, my skin flaming. “I’m doing that again, aren’t I? Where I’m too much?” It’s my impulsive nature that always wants to help. “You can tell me to chill. I won’t get offended.”
“No.” He stands and steps close. “You, Greta, can never be too much. In fact …” His knuckle is a whisper along my jaw. “I don’t think I can get enough.”
I want to tattoo his words onto my soul, so the next time I find myself looking inward, I’ll see the truth and remember this moment.
He cups my cheek for a pulse-pounding second, then drops his hand. “Let’s watch the movie as we set up everything.”
I smile, liking the idea that he wants to start a tradition—and I get to be part of it. “Okay.”
Leo pulls up Home Alone on a streaming service, and we begin putting together the tree.
He ends up getting a stepladder because the thing is twelve feet tall.
There aren’t nearly enough ornaments or decorations for trimming the monstrosity, but it’s cute he tried.
With Kevin McCallister’s antics as our soundtrack, we work as one, arranging the tree.
He leaves the lights unplugged, so we can have the full effect once the final ornament has been hung.
Leo slips on the last bulb from the box and steps back, joining me in assessing our work.
He slings an arm around my shoulder. It’s a total bro move, but I savor his touch anyway.
“Ready to plug it in?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure that was the last of the ornaments.”
Ornament. Oh snap. “Wait. I almost forgot.” I step out from under his touch.
“I brought you something.” Nervous about his reaction, I don’t look at him but grab my purse from the sofa.
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s nothing jaw-dropping or anything.
” I withdraw the tissue-papered gift and hand it to him.
He accepts with a surprised smile and unwraps it.
“It’s a sled.” I rush to fill the silence.
“Obviously not a real one. It’s an ornament.
” Remember my goal of not making a fool out of myself tonight?
I doused it with kerosene and lit the match with my stupid tongue.
“I made it at the senior party.” The painted brown popsicle sticks and hot-glued pipe cleaners for the rails now look ridiculously cheesy. Why did I think this was a good idea?
He turns it over and reads my Sharpied script, “Leo’s Maiden Voyage.” His gaze darts to mine with a grin splitting his face. “It’s our sled.”
The way he says “our” makes my heart jump, like soaring over the ridges on Killer Hill.
“You even snapped the rail.” He chuckles low at the mangled pipe cleaner.
“I’m nothing if not detail-oriented.”
He grabs my hand, sliding the ornament ribbon over one of my fingers and around one of his. “Let’s put it on there together. Another tradition.” His free hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me forward.
“Where at?” I ask softly.
“Front and center.” He raises our joined hands, and we hang the sled on the bough.
We’re so close I can note the curl of his lashes and a small scar near his cheekbone.
“Now it’s finally ready.” He steps behind the tree and plugs it in. The bright white lights illuminate the space.
Leo rejoins my side, and I smile at him. “Beautiful.”
“Very beautiful.” His smoldering gaze makes my skin burn. “Thank you for my gift.”
“It was either that or a pipe cleaner elf.”
“In honor of how we met.” If his voice rumbles any deeper, I will melt into a Greta-shaped puddle. He catches my hands in his and tugs me to him. “Why are you like this?” His lips brush my temple.
My breath shallows. His nearness. His touch. It’s unraveling my knotted defenses. “Like what?”
He eases back, and his thumb glides along my lower lip, his gaze tracking the movement. “This perfect.” His eyes darken with intent, and I react with a small nod, giving him the go-ahead.
His mouth is on mine, hungry, tender, and so very scorching. He anchors me against him, gripping my waist, even as my arms twine around his neck.
The fire crackles behind us, but it’s no match for the flames of heat igniting my body.
His lips skim my throat, and the scratch of his late-day stubble against my soft skin pulls my pleasured sigh.
I’m instantly embarrassed, but my reaction only encourages him to up the intensity with every sip of breath.
In the glow of the Christmas tree lights, Leo Mathis kisses me thoroughly.
I’ve imagined him holding me over a hundred times, but nothing prepared me for this moment.
The heat of his left palm through my clothes, the press of his strong arms around me, the tangling of his fingers in my hair, I memorize it all.
But it’s not until he murmurs my name against my lips that I realize he wants this. Wants me.
Could this really be happening? Could I have a future with Leo? Something warm unfurls in my chest, and it feels a lot like hope.
We move in delicious waves of give and take until I can almost hear Fletcher Thomas at the edges of my mind.
Leo never stays.
Shut up, Fletcher . I don’t care. I don’t care if Leo leaves.
I want this moment. I need it. I kiss the man harder.
Fiercer, as if in spite. Leo instantly responds, matching my fervor.
Yet the chanting echoes louder, and the truth is getting bolder, like wearing an ugly Christmas sweater at a black-tie event, itchy and an overall bad idea.
I know me. I can’t just not care . Which has always been my downfall.
My knees weaken.
Leo grips me tighter and gently walks me toward the couch. My legs didn’t buckle from the swooniness of the moment, well, not mostly . It’s that gripping fear I’ve known all my life that I can’t explain even to myself right now.
I pull back, my breathing ragged, and place my hands on his shoulders. I want to stay, and Leo will always want to go.
His eyes are hazy, no doubt resembling my own. Then his mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smile. “We didn’t even need mistletoe.”
I give a nervous laugh, but I’m inwardly freaking out. “I should go.”
He blinks. His gaze—seconds ago so beautifully hooded with the languid pleasure of our kiss—is now alert and … confused. “Everything okay?”
“Yep. Just jolly over here.” Jolly ? Who says that?
Other than Santa Ned after his smoke break?
Why am I so weird? Probably because my entire body is humming with the residue of Leo’s touch.
I feel fire and ice in tandem. Happiness and sadness.
With shaky limbs, I grab my purse and beeline for the foyer, Leo trying to keep up with my crazy pace.
He gathers my coat and scarf and hands them to me.
I force a bright smile. “Thank you for tonight.”
He steps close. “Greta, talk to me.” His voice is a deep timbre like rich cocoa—smooth and hot. But I can’t stomach any more of his sweetness. “Are we good?”
“Yeah, all good. I just didn’t know the time.” Which is true. I still don’t know the time. “I should be heading back.”
He nods, his gaze still hesitant, and opens the door for me.
“Goodnight, Leo.”