Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
QUINTON
“You coming to the tree lighting in the square?” Caleb asks, shutting down the sander in his hand. It scuffs along the hardwood as it dies out.
“When?” I ask, slipping my dust mask up over my face.
“Tomorrow night.”
“The school play is the week after. There’s also sleigh rides. Is there any Christmas event this town doesn’t do?”
Caleb chuckles. “Nope, not one.”
I groan and start up a small palm sander.
But who am I kidding, Maise is going to love this town.
Christmas is her favorite holiday. She absolutely gets into every Christmas event or tradition she can.
This afternoon, we have to hang decorations over the house.
This weekend, she has penciled in hanging the lights on the porch and in the yard.
And after the last three years of doing this, we have accumulated a good amount of oversized Christmas-themed light-up yard decorations.
Hope the fuses hold out with all the extra power being pulled on the old house’s system. Or the whole thing will be over before we can even light the first row of string lights.
We make short work of the last railing in the dining area of the inn before cleaning up the mess of fine dust and starting the wood treatment. A dark stain and varnish are what the owners wanted. So that’s what they are getting. And even with the first coat, it looks stellar.
Caleb and I finish in an hour with the railing, moving onto the wainscoting installation.
A new addition to the space, and frankly I think it makes the room.
Success is in the details when it comes to a build, and it’s another great choice.
The room’s facelift is looking incredible already, and we’re only just past the halfway mark.
We still have the rest of the column details to complete, and corbels in every doorway will add the finishing touches that make it shine.
Just in time for Christmas.
“So, you coming?” Caleb asks, pulling his mask down, his dark hair ruffled, his brown eyes homed in on me.
“Yeah, guessing so.”
“Bringing CC?”
“Hey what?”
“Well, if you believe the latest on the Grafton grapevine, you two are quite the item. Playing happy families with Maisey and Hank.”
“Shit. Who the hell told you that?”
He chuckles. “So not a thing, then? Asking for a friend.”
“Yeah right, bud. And no, we’re not a thing.”
But the words don’t fit right. Because even though they are the truth, I’ve started thinking about Celeste Black as more than just the girl next door. The woman who drives me crazy in every way she shouldn’t.
And does she . . .
That’s too soon, right?
We’ve barely had a handful of interactions.
But they were—intense.
No, that’s stupid. I’m overthinking this. Like I do with most of the women I’ve been involved with.
Aren’t I?
“Dude, you look like you’re in pain. Your secret’s safe with me. And I’ll consider her out-of-bounds.” Caleb slaps my shoulder and goes back to work. My face falls from whatever was twisting it up into an expression of surprise.
How is it everyone bar me has this shit figured out. Hell, Maise picks up on this stuff better than I do.
We finish the work for the day, and I swing past and pick up Maisey from school. She’s got a few days left ’til the holidays, and she is literally counting down. She’s elated when she climbs on up into the truck.
“I saw CC today.” Her face beams at the mention of our new neighbor.
Oh no, she’s got it worse than me.
“Was she working on the play backdrops?”
“I think so. But she gave us a talk on art and stuff after lunch. All the kids loved her.”
“Right.”
“Can we invite her over for dinner? Her daddy, too?”
“I don’t know, Maise.” I grind my jaw shut.
She’s giving me the pleading prayer hands, her eyes puppy-wide as she blinks like that will enhance her cuteness to a level I won’t be able to resist.
I sigh. “Fine. But you’re helping me cook.”
“Yes!” She fist pumps the air.
“And . . .” I say with a low tone, much like a warning. “It’s still a school night, little miss. No staying up late and conning Celeste and Hank into staying later.”
“Okay, Daddy. Geez, you don’t have to repeat everything to me all the time.”
“Just getting in first. I don’t want you to forget conveniently.”
She screws up her face as we pull into our driveway.
“Right, chores and then we can plan dinner.”
“Should I go over and invite them first?” she asks.
“Sure, kiddo. But straight back home, you hear?”
“Fine.”
She’s out the door before I have a chance to kill the engine. I shake my head with a low chuckle. Guess there’s no getting out of seeing Celeste—not anymore, now that Maise has her sights on being her friend. Whether the woman wants a five-year-old bestie or not.
“Pass the potatoes, will you, Tisha?” Hank says.
Celeste picks up the large porcelain bowl and hands it to him with a smile plastered on her face.
How she keeps it together when the man who raised her has long forgotten her, I’ll never know.
She’s braver than she gives herself credit for.
Braver than most people, who would simply stick Hank in a home and move on with their lives.
“Mr. Black, you’ve lived here for like a century, right? What was it like?” Maise asks.
For a second, I panic, thinking Celeste is going to intercept. Wishing my daughter wasn’t so damn curious.
“Well, I’m not that old. But I guess it was much the same. Although, if I remember rightly, the woman who lived here before you was nowhere as pretty as you.” He gives her a cheeky smile and then, “I wonder where she went . . .”
“Probably moved, Hank. How’s those potatoes?” Celeste asks.
So, they’re not telling him my grandmother died?
Why?
Not wanting to be the one to spill the beans, I help shift the subject to something lighter. “You’re good with your hands, Hank. Thanks for helping out today. Would have been in a real pickle without you.”
He nods, delight flooding his features. “Any time.”
“Yes, I was meaning to thank you for that.” Celeste meets my gaze, and I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about the backdrop frame anymore.
“Nah, all good.”
Hank’s focus ping-pongs between us.
I cut into my steak and load up some green vegetables onto it before shoveling it into my mouth, lest I say something stupid. Like, any excuse to be near you, or maybe . . . what book are you reading at the moment? You know, the one-handed read you—
I swallow, clearing my throat, trying to usher that last thought out of my mind.
“I’m done,” Maise chirps, her cutlery dropping into the center of her plate.
She most certainly is not. A pile of vegetables sits to one side of her plate, her meat half eaten.
“Half those vegetables, young lady, and three more bites of your steak.”
“Argh, Daddy, no. I want to play with CC.” She jiggles in her seat.
Surprise fills Celeste’s eyes as she sets her cutlery down. Her plate is almost cleared.
“Maise,” I warn.
“No, it’s okay,” Celeste says softly. “I’ve been needing some girl time for ages.”
Maisey is practically pinging off her chair. Lips pursed, hands steepled in her pleading prayer pose.
Good Lord, this girl lays it on thick.
“Fine, two more bites of each. Not negotiable.”
She snatches up her fork, shoveling in all four bites at once, and chews with blown-out cheeks as she wiggles on her chair.
Celeste simply watches her with an amused expression.
When my daughter swallows dramatically and flies from her chair, she grabs Celeste’s hand, almost pulling her over as she tries to rise from the table in a flurry of limbs. But to Celeste’s credit, she chuckles and follows willingly.
“More potatoes, Hank?”
“No thanks, this old man is full.” He leans back in his chair, and we chat about vague things like the weather, how the season is tracking this year, and the old houses we live in.
Not once in the ten minutes we spend together does he refer to his daughter.
Only his wife gets a mention when he recounts one particularly cold winter, that from what I gather was over twenty years ago.
When footsteps thunder back downstairs, I go to intercept Maisey before she can rope Celeste into a damn sleepover or something of the sorts.
“Mai—”
I slam into fragrant softness, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and into my chest.
Not Maisey.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Celeste breathes.
I steady her with my hands firmly on her arms. Her dark eyes flick up to my gaze. Her last breath stutters out as her eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the dark cinnamon color that sparkles under Maisey’s deluge of Christmas lights.
“Don’t be,” I utter. “You all good?” I step back, releasing my grip.
A shaky smile ghosts over her lips. “Yup.”
“Don’t let Maise con you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“I’m afraid that ship has sailed.”
I tilt my head, waiting for her to elaborate.
“No, not Maisey, she’s wonderful. I was just referring to my life in general.”
And there it is—the statement that speaks volumes as to how she feels about being back here. At least, that’s my assumption.
“Tell you what, how about you help me with the dishes, and I’ll listen.”
She goes to object, and I close in again.
“I’m a pretty good listener, Celeste.”
Too close.
I’m too close. She’s all elegant angles and curves. Smells fucking edible, and when her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, hell, I have to check myself.
Finally, she says, “Okay. Maybe the abridged version, since it’s getting late.”
“Perfect.”
I reroute to the dining room and collect the plates. Hank has wandered to the living room and is browsing the bookshelf. In the kitchen, I find Celeste adding soap to the water in the sink, her hand dipping into it as she swirls the suds to life.
And the pure domesticity of this moment steals a breath, holding it hostage before I can wrangle another in. When my brain flickers back online, I place the dishes to her right and swipe up a tea towel from the oven handle.
“Sorry, I hope it’s okay that I wash?” she says softly.
“Go for it.”
She washes as I dry, and we settle into a comfortable silence before she breaks it. “Thanks for feeding my father and me.”
“It was our pleasure. And it was Maisey’s idea.”
She chuckles. “I believe it.”
“She really likes you.”
“Ditto.” She looks at me with a soft expression as she rinses a plate and places it on the drying rack. “Oh, look at that, you can see right into our kitchen window from yours.”
That’s not the only set of windows that line up between our two houses. But I keep that to myself, not willing to admit I’ve seen her through my bedroom window. Out of shame—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
“So, I’m all ears.”
“Ah. Well, I am the youngest of three. And the only one without a career, so I drew the short straw and had to come home for our father.”
“I see. What do your siblings do?”
“One older brother, thirty-five, and an older sister who is thirty-two. Both corporate, Ben’s a lawyer and Hannah is in real estate. Safe to say they weren’t going to leave their jobs for Dad.”
“So that makes you the kind one?”
She huffs a strained laugh. “More like the useless one.”
“Celeste,” I say, my tone low and lined with annoyance. This woman is many things, useless is not one of them.
“I’m self-aware enough to be able to admit when I have nothing to show for the last decade, Quinton.”
She returns to the washing up, her movements becoming more rigorous with every swirl of the suds-soaked cloth. And when her cheeks redden and she doesn’t look up from her task, I can guess where her thoughts are at.
“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on her wrist to still it. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
She swallows and eventually turns her head to meet my gaze. And fuck, hers is silver lined.
Sniffing, she attempts to dry her eyes with her sleeve at the crook of her elbow.
Dammit.
I never intended for my listening to end like this.
A crash rings out from the living room.
“Oh shit. Dad.” Celeste is peeling away from the sink, drying her hands on her jeans as she rushes from the kitchen toward the sound.