Chapter 12 Tabitha
Chapter twelve
Tabitha
The children’s corner looks better than it has all season.
Extra string lights from my apartment cast a warm glow and provide the additional lighting needed for the camera.
Rory’s adjusting a stack of books to support my laptop, the best makeshift tripod we could come up with given the circumstances.
“When did you do all this?”
“While you were upstairs changing.” He studies the setup with intense focus. “Figured we should get started.”
Something dangerous unfurls in my chest. I shove it down.
“It’s ready to test.” He straightens, and in the cramped corner, we’re nearly chest to chest. “And I know someone who’d be perfect.”
He’s already pulling out his phone, and thirty seconds later, Rory’s FaceTiming his sister, and his whole face transforms.
“Hey, Melissa. Is Sophie around?”
“UNCLE RORY!”
Then she’s there, barreling into view with a gap-toothed grin, dark curls in a messy ponytail, and pajamas with cartoon cats reading books. I can’t help but smile.
“Want to help with a special project?”
I still at the gentleness in his voice. I’ve seen him manage Hays, advise, cajole, and definitely give a hard time to his best friend, but seeing him so soft and patient and present with his niece? It hits differently. I turn away, adjusting lights that don’t need adjusting.
“Yes! Are you at a bookstore? Is that the lady from the pictures?”
I freeze. The lights slip from my suddenly numb fingers.
“Pictures?” he stammers, momentarily confused.
“Yeah, you know, the ones where you were dressed up all fancy and—”
“Oh, the wedding. Um…yeah, this is that lady.”
He showed his family pictures of me? Of us? I drop to grab the strand of lights, glad for the excuse to look away.
Don’t, I chastise myself. Don’t let this mean what I think it means.
My stomach drops as I loop the lights back over the hook.
Rory clears his throat. “But, about the special project, I’m going to text you a link, Soph. Click on it and tell me what you see.”
“Okay!” Sophie’s face disappears as she presumably shifts to look at the device.
He types quickly on his phone. A moment later, “Got it! Oh wow, Uncle Rory, I can see the special chair and the decorations and all the books! It’s so pretty with all the lights!”
I turn to look at the reading corner, seeing it from the little girl’s perspective thousands of miles away.
“Perfect. Keep that open, and we’ll stay on FaceTime so you can tell me if anything goes wrong. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” she echoes.
Rory settles into the reading chair with The Night Before Christmas, and I position myself behind the laptop where I can monitor both the test stream and the FaceTime call.
And I watch something I wasn’t prepared for.
Rory captivating me. He’s good at this. Like really good.
His voice drops low and mysterious for the opening lines then brightens with excitement when the children appear.
He adds dramatic pauses in all the right places, builds anticipation before the big reveal, makes reindeer names sound magical instead of silly.
He’s animated without being over the top, engaging without trying too hard, and holds up the picture book, so she can see the illustrations.
On Rory’s phone, Sophie’s transfixed, her eyes glued to the screen. And I’m frozen behind the laptop, watching this man read with such natural warmth, and such easy affection, I can barely breathe.
This is what he’d be like as a father someday. Patient. Playful. Endearing. An image hits me unbidden. Rory reading to a little girl with his dark eyes. A daughter, curled up in his lap.
I blink hard, shoving away the thought.
“That was amazing!” Sophie announces when he finishes.
“So you could see everything and hear okay?” he asks, returning to my side and the video call.
“A-okay. I heard you really good.”
“Really well,” Melissa corrects in the background.
“Really well,” Sophie amends with an eye roll.
“I’m glad,” Rory says.
“I wish I could be there.” A wistful sigh accompanies the little girl's whispered wish.
Rory chuckles and grabs his phone, heading toward the window as he flips the camera. “You sure about that? It’s freezing here and has been snowing nonstop since I landed.”
“It’s like a winter wonderland,” the little girl exclaims.
“That’s one way to look at it,” he says, shooting me a look over his shoulder.
“But hey, Soph, we’ve got to get going—”
“Let me say hi to your friend.”
He hesitates for a second before returning to my side. “Um, okay. This is Tabitha. Tabitha, my niece, Sophie.”
I step into the frame. “Thank you for your help, Sophie.”
“You’re welcome.” Her gap-toothed grin is pure delight. “Anything for Uncle Rory. He’s my favorite person in the whole world.”
“Mine, too.” The words are out before I can stop them. Heat floods my face as I rush to add, “Right now, I mean. For helping with all this.”
But the damage is done. My secret is out. Rory’s eyes snap to mine, and the air crackles between us. I need to redirect this conversation. Now. “So, Sophie, what are you reading right now? Besides The Penderwicks?”
She lights up at the question, launching into an enthusiastic description of Roller Girl and how she wants to try roller derby, but her mom says she’s too young, and it’s too dangerous. We fall into easy conversation. I recommend a few other series I think she’d love.
Sophie’s practically glowing. “I wish we had a bookstore like yours here.”
“Maybe, your Uncle Rory can bring you to visit sometime,” I say before thinking it through.
Sophie gasps. “Really? Could we, Uncle Rory? Please?”
Rory’s expression shifts, and he clears his throat. “We’ll see, Soph.”
“That means probably not,” Sophie translates with the wisdom of a child well-versed in adult deflection. Then she yawns, wide and unrestrained.
“Someone needs to get to bed,” Melissa’s voice comes through. “Say goodnight, Sophie.”
“Night, Uncle Rory. Night, Tabitha!” She waves enthusiastically before the screen goes dark.
Silence fills the bookstore. Just me and Rory and all the things we’re not saying hanging between us like a question neither of us knows how to answer.
“So.” I break the silence because I can’t stand it. “Pictures?”
Rory has the grace to look sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Sophie asked why I kept smiling at my phone when I visited after the wedding. I mentioned you.”
“Mentioned me how?” I’m aiming for casual but missing by a mile.
“That I met someone interesting.” He’s watching me carefully. “Someone I couldn’t stop thinking about.”
My heart stutters. I turn away, straightening books that are already straight. “Oh.”
“I might have also mentioned you were beautiful.” He takes a step closer. “Tabitha—”
“She’s great. Really helpful. But we should promote the event.” I spin away before he can finish, before my hopes get any higher when whatever this is between us has an expiration. When the roads open. “The social media post. We need to get it up tonight, so people have time to plan ahead.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. I feel his eyes on my back. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll set up the donation page while you write the post.”
We work in the children’s corner, me cross-legged on the rainbow rug with my laptop, him in the reading chair with his. Every time I glance up for his input, I find him already watching me.
“How’s this?” I angle my screen toward him, reading aloud.
“Don’t let the storm ruin your holiday plans.
Join us for a special virtual Storytime with Santa!
Bring your family together from the warmth of home as Santa reads holiday stories and we collect book donations online for the children’s hospital. ”
“Perfect.” His voice is rough. “But maybe add something about the wish list feature?”
“Good thinking.” I make the changes, my mind still scattered, even as I try to focus. “There. I think that covers everything.”
I hit post before I can overthink it. Now, we wait.
I set my laptop aside and pull my knees to my chest, suddenly exhausted. Tomorrow will be huge, assuming anyone actually registers. Assuming the technology works. Assuming I didn’t just make a massive mistake putting this much faith in a virtual event.
“Hey.” Rory’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. “It’s going to be a success.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you. And it’s clear how much this town loves what you do.” He stands, stretching. “And I know that sitting here worrying all night won’t change anything.”
“So what do you suggest?” I try for sarcasm, but it comes out weary.
His mouth curves into the half-smile that does dangerous things to my pulse. “I have something that’ll distract you.”
Heat floods through me. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” He offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet.
His fingers are warm and strong as they curl around mine, and when I’m standing, he pulls me close against his chest. With one hand on my hip, the other rises to brush a strand of hair back from my face, his thumb grazing my cheekbone.
The touch is so gentle, so deliberate, that heat pools low in my belly and my lips part on an unsteady breath.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand again.
I follow him toward the stairs, my mind already racing ahead to what happens when we get to my apartment. The way his hands will feel on my skin. The way he kisses as if he’s memorizing me. The way I keep forgetting this is temporary every time he touches me.
But when we get upstairs, he doesn’t head to the bedroom. Instead, he leads me to the couch and grabs the remote.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting on a movie.” He drops onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him.
I stare at him. “You want to watch a movie?”
“I want to prove I’m right.” His eyes dance. “Unless you’re scared you’ll have to admit I won the argument about Die Hard being a Christmas movie.”
Despite everything, the uncertainty, the complicated feelings I’m trying not to examine, I laugh. “Not a chance.”
He pulls me down beside him, and I let him, tucking myself against his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Just watch. By the time John McClane saves Nakatomi Tower, you’ll be a convert.”
His arm settles around my shoulders, solid and warm, and I let myself have this. One night of pretending we’re just two lovers snowed in, watching a movie, and not two people hurtling toward something neither of us knows how to navigate.
“Don’t count on it,” I murmur as the opening credits start.
His laugh rumbles through his chest against my cheek as he drops a casual kiss on my head.