Chapter 1 #2
“I know. Small town, word spreads.” His jaw goes a bit tight like he isn’t fond of that, so I quickly add, “Not that there’s been much to spread about you, of course.
Your name and where you moved are all I’ve been able to get around town.
” A blush burns over my cheeks as my unfortunate habit of verbal vomit comes out.
Finally, I get a genuine reaction: the lift of a thick, dark eyebrow and the tiniest tip of the corner of his lips.
He’s amused. That’s a good sign, right?
I don’t think serial killers get amused by rambling women, do they?
Unfortunately, the rambling only gets worse.
“My best friend thinks you’re a serial killer,” I admit, then instantly wish I hadn’t because who says that to a virtual stranger? My panic fades almost as quickly, though, melting into something much more pleasant because with my words, his lips spread into a smirk.
It’s not even a full smile, just a slight tilt of his lips like my antics amuse him, but my god, it’s a good smirk that settles warm in my belly.
“And you?” he asks.
I stare for a moment before realizing what he’s asking.
“I was leaning more toward you won the lottery and are hiding from your greedy family.” He tips his head ever so slightly, like he’s assessing me and taking me in, so slightly it must be unintentional, and I wonder if maybe I’m right, after all.
When he doesn’t give me the truth, or really, anything, I fill in the silence that has grown between us once more.
“Anyway, I just wanted to stop by, say hi, and introduce myself formally. If you ever need anything at all, I’m your girl.
It’s kind of my thing around town. You need some help, call up Wren King!
” His brow furrows, but he nods, then steps back just a bit as if he’s done with the conversation and going to close the door.
Quickly, I add, “Oh, also, as head of the decorating committee in town, I must ask, when do you plan to start decorating for Christmas? If you’d like, I can come over to help out. Many hands make light work, and all.”
“I don’t,” he says in that low, gravelly voice. I shrug and give him a slight, conciliatory nod.
“No worries, just figured I’d offer since you might not be comfortable asking for help since you just moved here and all.
” I stare at him some more, the chill of mid-November starting to creep beneath my sweater.
I probably should have thrown on a jacket, but honestly, I didn’t think I’d be standing outside this long.
He shakes his head, confusing me.
“No. What I meant was, I don’t plan on decorating. Not my thing.”
“I’m sorry?”
He shrugs as if he didn’t just say the most unbelievable thing. “It’s not my thing. Christmas, decorating. Not for me.”
“But…but you live on Bluebird Lane.” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“It’s…it’s…” I force myself to take a deep breath to calm and center myself when I hear my voice going high-pitched.
You always win people over much more easily with a friendly face and a calm demeanor.
“It’s tradition. This is the most decorated street in all of Holly Ridge, and that’s saying something because we love decorating here.
The town has been fully lit for almost thirty years; this street is going on sixty.
” It’s a tradition started by my grandmother, and I have the honor of continuing it this year.
“Well then, it sounds like you won’t need me to take part; plenty of festivity to go around,” he says, then goes to close the door.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I put a hand out, stopping it.
“The entire street will be lit up. We have a Land of Sweets theme going this year, you know, like in The Nutcracker? It’s going to be spectacular, but we need everyone involved to make it extra magical.
The lights bring people from all over to come check it out.
” His jaw goes tight with my words, but I’m too panicked to really understand it, much less heed the warning.
“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to deal with this one staying dark this year.” Any trace of amusement disappears from his face, and my gut drops.
I don’t mean it, really, I don’t. Arguing isn’t really my thing, but the way he’s so casually brushing off my request lights some kind of irritation in my chest I can’t seem to tamp down.
“Why? It wouldn’t have to be anything crazy, just a couple of strands of lights, something easy.
I’ll even do it for you! I have tons of extra decorations; you won’t even have to buy any. ”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything for me. I’m fully capable.”
Hope sparks in my chest as the panic about failing in my very first year as decorating committee head, of letting everyone down, dissipates.
“So you’ll put up some lights?”
“No,” he says simply. That hope shatters to the ground like a delicate ornament.
My jaw tightens, and I kind of want to stomp my foot, throw a full-blown temper tantrum right here on his front porch. “Why not?”
He sighs, and I can tell he’s losing whatever patience he had for me, but I can’t find it in me to care.
“Because I don’t like Christmas, and I didn't move here to get into some kind of community decorating contest. I’m just trying to live my life.”
“You don’t like Christmas?” I ask, aghast. “Why not?”
“I just don’t. It’s my least favorite time of year.”
He says it so plainly, as if he just told me he doesn’t like pizza or chocolate instead of admitting he doesn’t like the most magical time of the year. My jaw drops. Not liking the holiday season is…unthinkable. Absolutely ridiculous. Who doesn’t like Christmas?
Before I can come up with anything to say through my shock, some argument to pull him to my side, his phone starts ringing. He looks toward his kitchen where the sound is coming from before turning back to me.
“I’m going to have to answer that. Have a nice day, Wren.” And then he closes the door in my face.
I stand there for far too long, probably looking like an idiot staring in shock at a closed door, before I slowly turn and trudge down his walkway. With each step, the shock melts away, irritation filling its place.
“I think you’re right,” I say with a sigh, slamming the door behind me and kicking my shoes to the side. Hallie is standing beside the window facing my neighbor’s house, so I know she probably watched the entire, thoroughly embarrassing interaction. I lean my back against the door and sigh.
“I always am,” she says. “What am I right about this time, though?”
“He’s a serial killer.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, what did you see? Blood on his hands? Rope hidden in a corner? Or did you hear shouts or something?”
“Worse,” I say. “He said he hates Christmas.”