Chapter 3 #2
A wide smile splits across Kira’s face. “The science of love. With Great Grandma Hensley. She says understanding the steps is important for proper emotional development.”
I catch Asher’s eye and have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. He looks like he’s planning to have a serious conversation with Mom’s grandmother about educational content.
“We’re focusing on the sleigh part right now,” I say diplomatically.
“For now,” Kira says ominously. “Can I help? I’m excellent at managing glitter and romance supervision.”
And that’s how we acquire a teenage project manager who approves our color choices but questions our “romantic development timeline.” According to Kira, we need more “accidental touching” and “longing gazes.”
“She watches too much television,” Asher mutters under his breath after she leaves to the front of the shop to look for the wood glue.
“She’s not wrong about the touching thing though,” I say without thinking, then immediately want to disappear into the paint cans.
Asher goes completely still. The workshop feels smaller suddenly, charged with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with Christmas decorating.
“Mads...”
“I mean,” I rush on, because my mouth has apparently declared independence from my brain, “we keep bumping into each other. Small workspace. Totally normal. Occupational hazard. Nothing romantic about basic spatial awareness.”
He’s studying me with an expression I can’t decipher, those steel-blue eyes trying to solve some puzzle I’m not sure I understand myself.
“Right,” he says slowly. “Spatial awareness.”
“Completely practical,” I confirm, focusing intensely on painting sleigh runners that definitely don’t require this level of concentration.
“You missed a spot.”
His voice is quiet, and suddenly he’s right behind me, his hand covering mine on the paintbrush, guiding it to a section that honestly looks fine to me.
His hand is warm and steady, completely contradicting his reputation for being perpetually irritated with the world. When I look up at him, there’s something in his expression that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.
“There,” he says softly, but he doesn’t step away.
“Perfect,” I whisper, definitely not talking about paint coverage.
We’re standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his chest.
“Mads,” he says, my name like a question.
I should step back. Make some joke about paint coverage or Kira’s romantic supervision. Do anything except tilt my face up toward his like some Victorian heroine waiting for her hero to sweep her off her feet.
But I don’t step back.
And he doesn’t either.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to brush a streak of green paint from my cheek.
“Probably,” I agree, my voice barely a whisper.
“We barely know each other.”
“True.”
“And I’m terrible at this. At relationships. At letting people in.”
“I’m pretty terrible at it too. My last boyfriend said I was too much. Too optimistic.”
His jaw tightens. “He was an idiot.”
“Maybe. But what if he was right? What if I am too much?”
“Mads.” His thumb traces along my cheekbone, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away.
But I don’t pull away. I can’t. Because this kiss feels like coming home and jumping off a cliff all at once.
Feels like Christmas morning and the first warm day of spring and every good thing I’ve ever believed in wrapped up in one perfect moment.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy. Breathless. Completely undone by the way he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of miracle he never expected to find.
“Yes! I knew it!” Kira shouts from across the workshop, making us both jump apart like we’ve been caught doing something scandalous instead of having the sweetest first kiss in the history of first kisses.
“Kira,” Asher says, his voice rough, “weren’t you supposed to help your mom with dinner prep?”
“Not until five. It’s only four-thirty. Grandma’s going freak when I tell her about the kissing under the—” Kira stops, looking around.
“Oh. There’s no mistletoe. But there’s paint!
That’s even better! Paint-kissing is super artistic!
” She grins at us like she’s enjoying this level of torture way too much.
I bury my face in my hands, caught between laughter and mortification. When I peek through my fingers, Asher’s looking at me with an expression of amused horror.
“Your sister is very thorough,” he says.
“She’s going to want a full report,” I warn him.
“I’m not giving a fifteen-year-old a report on my kissing technique.”
“Good, because I’m pretty sure she’d have suggestions for improvement.”
He laughs then, real and warm, and the sound does terrible things to my heart. Makes me want to believe in magic again. Makes me want to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’ve found someone who thinks my particular brand of chaos is worth keeping around.
“Kira!” Mom’s voice carries from outside. “Dinner prep time!”
“Coming!” Kira hops down from her workbench and heads for the door, then turns back with a solemn expression. “Good job, guys. Tomorrow we should work on keeping eye contact longer and maybe some hand-holding during the sleigh ride.”
She disappears before either of us can respond.
“Gotta love sisters,” I say, still slightly breathless from our kiss.
“She’s terrifying,” Asher mutters, but there’s fondness in his voice.
“She reads way too many romance novels. Just wait until she starts going to the Bookaholics Anonymous meetings.”
“I won’t survive that,” he says, and the way he says it—like he’s planning to stick around for Kira’s literary evolution—makes something warm and hopeful bloom in my chest.
We stand there for a moment, paint-covered and slightly stunned, looking at each other like we’re trying to figure out what happens next.
“So,” I say finally, “that happened.”
“Yeah. It did.”
“Any regrets?”
He considers this seriously, which I appreciate. “Ask me tomorrow. When I can think clearly again.”
“Fair enough.”
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks as we start cleaning paintbrushes in Jo’s industrial sink.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. Then, feeling brave: “Think Kira will have more romantic advice?”
“I’m counting on it,” he says, and when he smiles at me—really smiles, not just that almost-twitch of his mouth—I understand why people believe in Christmas magic.
Because standing here in this workshop full of broken things being made beautiful again, covered in paint and completely undone by the sweetest kiss of my life, I’m starting to think maybe Mrs. Claus knew exactly what she was doing when she told me to open my heart.
Maybe the best magic happens when you stop trying to be someone else’s version of perfect and start being brave enough to be yourself.
Even if yourself is currently covered in Christmas paint and falling for someone who thinks holiday decorating constitutes a public safety hazard.
Especially then.