Chapter 6 #2
I tilt my head. His work. Right. He told me he’s employed by the town of Silver Creek, and yet no one knew of him.
I’m not sure I feel like calling him on it.
What would it accomplish? It’s not like we can go back in time.
Oh, but if that were possible, I wouldn’t have gone to that icy park bench, and I wouldn’t have missed so much that night.
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.
“I’m not heartbroken or anything.” And I wasn’t.
I was more annoyed at the situation and what resulted from it.
I glance at the paper towel, now stained red.
“You need something on your head. I’ll be right back.
” I hustle to my office and grab the first-aid kit.
I return to find him bending over the glass case, surveying the assortment of vintage tools.
He finds me approaching and stands to full height.
I don’t recall him being that tall. He’s got about a foot on me, making me wish I would’ve worn higher heels to narrow (at least slightly) the difference between us.
I drag my stool out from behind the counter and point. “Sit.” I don’t always treat my customers like German Shepherds but nothing about this is normal.
He obeys with a slight twist to his mouth.
I crack open the kit and grab a cleaning agent. Sunshine from the storefront window streams across the space, washing Leo’s profile with light. Dots of grime sprinkle his brow ridge, and his hair is dusted with dirt. Ugh, I should probably scan his scalp for injury too.
After setting down the cleaning wipe, I approach my patient and am hit with that same woodsy scent I recall from last year.
Those warm, cozy notes remind me of moonlit sled rides, dancing snowflakes, and two carefree souls.
This … this is a result of my biology. The olfactory nerve—the one responsible for the sense of smell—has a direct pathway to the emotional and memory parts of the brain.
Which is why certain scents trigger visceral memories more than any of the other senses.
So my reaction is purely scientific, not emotional.
He looks at me, expectantly.
“I … uh … should check the rest of your head to be sure there aren’t any knots.”
“Sure.” Still holding the towels to his forehead, he dips his chin to his chest, and I tentatively run my hands through his hair.
My fingertips tingle as I sift through the silky strands while dozens of questions filter through my brain.
How is this happening? Why do men get beautiful, wavy hair and long lashes?
Speaking of hair, how many women have tousled these locks?
Stay clinical here. I straighten my spine and finish my examination.
Once I’m certain of no more bumps or scrapes, I force myself to step back.
My purpose is to get this man patched up and out of my store.
I snatch the cleansing wipe from the counter and clear the area of the cut.
“The gash isn’t deep,” I say as I apply a butterfly bandage.
Now to clean the rest of his face. A few scrapes stretch across his upper cheekbone but thankfully aren’t bleeding.
Leo’s gaze wanders to something behind me. “Is that a vault?”
“It is.” I grab more cleansing packets. “This building used to be Silver Creek’s first bank. Hence our name.” I open the packaging and remove the pads.
“Does the vault close?”
“It used to. But when I was little, I accidentally got trapped inside. Gran immediately had it welded open.”
“I bet that was terrifying.”
I shrug. “I don’t remember being scared.
Somehow I knew Gran would find me.” Gran and I had a special bond.
If she was near, I knew everything would be okay.
Perhaps that’s why I struggled so much after her passing.
I’d never known a time without her, never been solely on my own.
I shake off the pressing sadness and ease closer to Leo.
“Just going to clean off the excess blood and dirt.”
I stand in the opening between his knees, awareness of our close proximity burning through me.
I hate the quiver in my fingers as I cup his chin and tilt his head up.
The stubble on his jaw grazes the soft flesh of my palm.
Breath shaky, I gently swipe his upper cheekbone, sliding the pad downward.
I fold the pad, searching for a clean spot.
I slide my thumb under his chin again and tentatively place my other hand on his large shoulder to steady myself.
Maybe it’s the antiseptic making me woozy.
Let’s go with that. Because it’s easier to blame the pungent cleansing agent for this current wave of headiness than to acknowledge it might be a visceral reaction to touching Leo.
Never mind my feeling the coiled strength of his solid form beneath my fingertips.
Or the way my body has been brushing his inner thigh.
This interaction feels too personal, too intimate, and the quicker it’s done, the sooner my heart rate can return to a non-alarming level.
I dip closer and scrub at the crusted blood at the edge of his mouth.
The side of my thumb brushes over his lush lower lip.
I don’t realize how near my face is to his until he turns and our noses brush.
I jolt back, nearly bumping a display of vintage frames.
Clinical. I can be clinical.
Pulse pounding, I return to the task at hand and spot tiny pebbles embedded in his skin. “You, uh, have Main Street stuck in your face.”
“I don’t even feel it.” His gaze clamps mine, and a bolt of warmth surges through me.
Needing a second, I angle away and grab another cleansing swab. With a gentle swipe, I clear away the last of the offending stones. “Do you want to keep Mitzy’s lip print as a souvenir?”
He snorts. “I’m good.”
I wipe the bright pink hue from his right cheek and step back. “All done.”
“How’s it look?”
Stupidly beautiful. I know, I know. He’s talking specifics, the cut, and not generalities, his face, but I’m not too proud to admit Leo’s features are attractively arranged. “I think you’ll live.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“But, hmm.” I inch closer and study his forehead. “It hasn’t entirely stopped bleeding.”
“Head wounds do that.”
“I realize this.” I grab a few more butterfly bandages and press them into his palm. “These should help. But if the bleeding doesn’t quit, you might need stitches.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Do you want any aspirin?”
“No, I’m really okay.”
I crumple the wrappers, and he places his hand atop mine. “Thank you, Greta,” he says in the same reverent tone he’d used last year after sledding. His gaze melts into mine with an intensity that cinches my chest.
“No problem.” My voice is shaky, and I hate it. “Just glad you didn’t die saving Frieda the Fake.”
His brow raises. “Frieda the Fake?”
Oof, I didn’t mean to confess my neuro tic. “Yeah, because it was a fake baby … never mind. I kinda do that. Tack on descriptors to names.”
“Did you do that to mine?”
Several times over, but I’m not going to admit it. Instead, I adopt a professional air. “What brings you to The Memory Bank?”
He catches my avoidance of his question, and his eyes gleam with amusement. “I need help finding something.” He tugs a piece of paper from his pocket. “Would you happen to have these items?” He hands me the note.
I read it over and let out a whistle. “Atlantic Mold Company ceramic tree 1965, and Vallerton nativity set.” Wow. I’m not even sure Santa himself can fulfill this wish list. “May I ask what this is for?” Leo doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s into vintage Christmas decorations.
His gaze drops to his folded hands. “It’s for someone else.”
Cryptic much? I open my phone and google “Atlantic Mold.” Most people would recognize these items. Atlantic Mold Company spearheaded the ceramic trees trend.
The countertop-sized trees have holes in the boughs to place multi-colored plastic pieces.
A single light is placed at the inside tree’s base, so when turned on, all the little plastic colors are brightly lit.
“These are fairly popular, but the year might trip you up. The stamp on the bottom of the tree doesn’t mean the year that particular tree was created, just the year that the mold was.
A certain tree can be made later but have an earlier date on it because of the mold type. ”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a picture of what color the tree was? Green or White? Snow on the boughs?” The options are endless.
“Yeah.” He stands to pull his phone from his jeans pocket, and after a couple seconds, angles his phone screen toward me, showing me the tree.
“That helps. I have something similar in storage, but it’s not that mold. Hold on.” I move behind my counter and scribble down Jared’s name on a scrap of paper, so I remember to call him later. “I’ve got a friend who specializes in antique Christmas décor. He might be able to help you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“As for the other piece, that’s an extremely rare find.
Just to make sure, are you certain you need a Vallerton and not a Garrick set?
People often confuse the two.” Mostly because both sets were made around the same time.
They are pretty much equal in value, but the styles are completely different.
Gran has a Garrick, which she always promised I’d inherit.
My heart squeezes at the thought. There are many meaningful memories attached to that nativity set.
“It’s Vallerton. I’m sure of it.”
“That nativity set is ridiculously hard to track down. And if one happens to get listed, it’s usually snapped up by an inside buyer.
” I personally saw one of those nativity sets years ago.
The detail on those pieces is impeccable.
Sadly, it’s so rare, just like the Garrick brand, I wouldn’t know where to start.
“If I find one—and that’s a big if—it’ll have at least three zeros in the price tag. ”