Twelve
Winter
Over the last two weeks, my life has fallen into a routine.
Somehow, I still haven’t been able to get my mother to stop volunteering my help at the ornament shop.
But since the almost-kiss, I’ve started to drive myself here instead of riding with Saint.
The less time we spend together, the better.
I was far too close to crossing lines that night at Bottom Barrel, and I can’t let it happen again.
With Thanksgiving quickly approaching, the shop has been busier than ever, but thankfully, this is the last week it’ll be open until next year.
Sandy and I have been packing the last of the orders to ship.
In the past, Saint’s mother kept the store open until around mid-December.
Saint has been shutting down before Thanksgiving since he took over. Cutting the sale season short.
Sandy could still outwork a lot of Yule’s teenage population. Her work ethic is impeccable. But with her getting older, I worry a little bit about her.
Shooting a concerned look her way, I say, “It must be hard on you losing the couple of weeks of work. Do you have something else set up to get you by?”
Her brows furrow before she seems to realize something.
“Oh no, dear.” She smiles brightly. “Saint always makes sure I get by just fine.”
Now I’m the one who’s confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, that sweet boy. He’s turned into such a thoughtful man. He knew that shutting down earlier than normal would be hard on me financially, so he compensated me for the lost wages.”
“He pays you for the time the store’s closed?”
She grins brightly, nodding with enthusiasm.
The information gives me pause. That’s extremely generous and so unlike the Saint I knew. Has he changed so much in the time that’s passed? If this is true, what else has changed about him?
Stunned speechless, neither of us talks much after that. Instead, we work in companionable silence.
We’re almost done for the day when my cell phone rings in my pocket. As soon as I see the name displayed on my screen, I wish I had ignored it.
Resigned to my fate, I answer the call before it goes to voicemail.
“Alex,” I address him.
“Winter, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” he states in that no-nonsense tone of his.
I’m well aware that my agent has been trying to get a hold of me. I’m also not surprised he hasn’t been able to reach me, seeing as I’ve been dodging his calls.
“Sorry, I’ve been swamped here,” I lie.
Getting right to the heart of the matter, he asks, “Have you done as I’ve asked and written something for me to show your publisher?”
I wince. “Not exactly.” If we’re being honest, I haven’t written a damn thing since being back in Yule, but I know I absolutely cannot admit that to Alex. He’s usually very levelheaded to work with, but if he knew the truth, I could see him losing his cool.
I’ve already lied to him once on this call. What harm will one more lie do?
“I’ve got the idea. I’m just trying to flesh out a few more pivotal plot points before I start writing.”
A heavy sigh comes across the line. I count the seconds. If I get to five without him replying, I know I’m in deep trouble. One. Two—before I get to three, he picks up the conversation.
“It better be good. If you cut it too close, I won’t have time to get it to an editor before we have our meeting in New York with the execs. This needs to knock the socks off them. I’m afraid of what will happen otherwise.”
When I’ve made assurances that it’ll be the best work they’ve ever read, lying through my teeth, I can finally say goodbye.
I drop the phone down on the tabletop I’m standing in front of and slump forward. Sighing, I try not to panic.
When I feel like I can put this stress behind me—at least momentarily—I straighten up and plan to go back to helping Sandy. But when I look up, I meet Saint’s eyes, who’s standing mere feet away from me. How much of that did he hear?