Chapter 8 #2
Let it be known Leo’s jacket is made from high-end Italian wool, and the seamstress in me wants to run my fingers all.
over. it. I’m tempted to take him up on his original offer of lending it to me for warmth.
I refrain, but I do allow my fingers to remain captive in his.
“How do you know I don’t have a payback side? ”
His mouth arcs in a smile, and, oh great, he brought his dimples along. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“It’s not every day I see a grown man squirm.
” Squirm is an exaggeration. He’s not running a finger under his collar or anything, but he does have a flair of apprehension in his eyes.
“If I dance with you, you answer all my questions. Those are my terms.” Seeing this dance as a transactional agreement will keep my mind rooted in something else besides how my veins are thrumming with heat.
“Deal.” He wastes no time leading me to the dance floor.
The band starts playing “The Way You Look Tonight,” and I slide my hand into his as he curls his arm around my waist. The slower rhythm of the music is a stark contrast to the rapid tempo of my pulse.
I blame Leo. When dancing with Fletcher, I didn’t need to remind myself to move or to force my intake of breaths.
Just as Fletcher and Leo have opposing looks, they have different auras about them.
Fletcher is Christmas night by the fire, steady and cozy with a gentle hum of contentment.
Leo is New Year’s Eve, the seconds ticking till midnight, and the palpable thrill of something new and unpredictable.
Each is alluring, though one has a slightly better edge.
“I prefer Leo.” He breaks the silence, forcing me to look into his eyes instead of at his tie. “It’s from my middle name.”
“Orileo, right?”
He nods. “Remington’s too stuffy. Like a politician or bank president. Someone who wears three-piece suits to bed.”
“And you don’t.” The mistake hits the second the words fly from my stupid lips.
“I mean, of course , you don’t. Well, not that I know what you wear to bed.
I just mean … ugh.” I slide my eyes shut.
It was only a matter of time before my awkwardness kicked in.
I slowly lift my lashes to a fully grinning Leo.
“Is there any way to strike what I said from your memory? Are you by any chance prone to bouts of amnesia?”
He makes a show of trying to think. “Not that I remember.” His cheesy teasing restores my conversational equilibrium.
“Leo does seem to fit you more.” I agree with his preference. It’s more down-to-earth.
His expression softens. “Most people in Silver Creek know me as Remington because that’s what I was called when I lived here.”
At freaking Ivy Hall! “With your grandparents?”
“Yeah, they’re both gone now. But I lived here during the summers or would come for weekends when not in prep school.”
His confession takes my mind off Titanic décor and onto something more human and devastating. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly. I have no idea if his grandparents passed this year or a decade ago, but, as one whose grief is still fresh, I ache for him, nonetheless.
His throat bobs. “Thank you.”
I’m aware of every place he’s touching me. The way his strong fingers clasp around mine. The pressure of his hand on the bare skin of my back. I’m scrambling for what to say next, when my brain snags on something he just told me. “Did you say you went to preparatory school?”
“I did.”
“Isn’t that like a boarding school?” This man missed out on the brilliance of public education. How is he a functioning adult without ever learning “Hot Cross Buns” on the recorder?
“My parents traveled abroad a lot. So they put me in a school where I could live on campus.”
And my stupid heart cracks a bit more. I couldn’t imagine living away from family, being separated from everything I knew as home.
I feel like I should match his admission with one of my own.
“I never knew my dad, and my mom was never around—or just didn’t want to be around—when I was growing up.
I understand what it feels like to have absent parents. ”
His thumb skims along the ridges of my spine. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be around you.”
Good thing I’m in the arms of a man who handles hot things because my internal temperature is concerning. “Fletcher told me you’re a firefighter?”
“I am.”
“You told me you missed our date because you had to work . Am I to assume, Remington Orileo Mathis, that there was a fire the night we were to meet?”
He swallows and looks away. “Yeah.”
I lightly swat his shoulder. “Here I was thinking your office copier jammed, and you used that as an excuse. I had no idea you were out battling a fire.”
A smile returns to his lips. “A paper jam?”
“Or delayed by a pretty secretary.”
The warmth of his laugh surrounds me. “Our secretary is a fifty-year-old man named Mike. He’d throat punch me if I called him pretty.”
“I’m sorry I somewhat loathed you when you were out being a hero.”
A shadow flickers across his face. “No need to apologize, Greta. I’m no hero.” He eases closer. “I wasn’t trying to deceive you about my name. But I never get the chance to be just Leo. People know me for my family, my status. Mostly for my?—
“Money?” And probably Ivy Hall. The tight lines framing his pensive gaze are enough to squelch any enthusiastic curiosity I have about his family’s estate.
“Yeah.” His eyes catch the soft glow of the twinkling lights, and I note the amber flecks among darker shades of brown. “But you knew me just as some dude you nearly skewered with an elf.”
I snort. “And being almost stabbed is better than being known as rich?”
“Yes.” His tone’s dead serious.
“I can see how it would be tough to know who’s being genuine or not.”
He shrugs. “I can usually tell someone’s motives within two seconds of meeting them. It’s one of those things you learn when your family has money. You learn to use your gut.”
I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never had the burden of being stinking rich. But the feathering niggle in my chest wants to know—what does his gut say about me? Of course I’m too chicken to utter such a thing. So I switch the subject. “I found some information about the ceramic tree.”
“Really? That was quick.” The pleased surprise in his deep timbre slides over my skin.
I smile. “I should be getting a call back with more details on Thursday.”
“I can swing by your store on Friday.”
Fletcher did awesome in his keynote address.
He discussed the merits of the fire department, approached the topic of renovations for the station, and kept everything under twenty minutes, which my acorn-sized bladder heartily approves of.
I text Tilly to meet me at the women’s headquarters—aka the bathroom.
She squeals the second she sees me. “I saw you dancing with Fletcher the Fine!”
I press a wad of paper towels against my armpit because sweat and silk are about as compatible as a snowman and a blowtorch. “I never dubbed Fletcher that way.”
She gives a skeptical look. “Fletcher the Fetching? Oh I like that. It just rolls off the tongue.”
I laugh. “I don’t think I gave him a descriptor.”
“No way. I won’t believe it.” She fishes a lip gloss from her purse and runs it over her mouth. “You give everyone a descriptor.”
“Not everyone. There is a good deal of the world’s population that remains descriptor-less.”
She screws the lid onto her gloss, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “I thought maybe you heard the rumor.”
This is new. “What rumor?”
“That Fletcher Thomas isn’t as loaded as we thought. As the community barista, you know I’m like the coffee addict’s bartender. Fletcher’s personal secretary was complaining about a lot of budget cuts going on. She’s nervous she won’t get as big a Christmas bonus this year.”
“But he’s the Silver Creek Secret Santa.” Or was he? Fletcher did point out that he never actually said he was the community philanthropist. Maybe he works on behalf of the real one? I have no clue. It’s none of my business anyway.
Tilly shrugs. “Speaking of the Secret Santa business. I caught someone taking the letters from the mailbox at the café and stuffing them in the trash.”
I gasp. “Isn’t that a federal offense? Okay, maybe not.
” Since those letters aren’t going through the actual postal system.
“But it’s still a huge moral violation. Please tell me you threatened to never serve the culprit quality hot beverages again.
” Tilly may be pageant material, but she’s fierce when she needs to be.
“When I yelled, he ran out the door. I had to dig the letters out of the garbage. Some were soggy. Here’s hoping they’re legible.
” She gives herself a once-over in the mirror, then looks at me.
“Enough about that. Tell me how many firefighters’ numbers you raked in.
I’m thinking with that slit”—she motions at my dress—“you should at least be in the double digits by now.”
“I have three-fourths of the firefighters in my contact list now,” I say dryly.
“Sheesh. Leave some for me.” She tries to adopt an expression of mock offense, but we both know she’s usually the one attracting all the attention.
Her vibrant personality, coupled with her pretty features, serves her well in the dating department.
Which is why it frustrates me that Fletcher ignored my hints about asking her to dance.
“Okay. I think I’ve waited long enough. Spill it.
Who was the TDH you were dancing with before the keynote? ”
TDH is code for Tall, Dark, and Hot. “That’s Leo.”
“ The Leo?” Her brown eyes widen, then narrow. “What? You danced with the man who stood you up?” Spoken in the same scandalous tone like, What? You ordered decaf?
“Well, apparently, he’s a firefighter and was facing a fire at the time of our meeting. Saving lives and all. Since he didn’t have my number, he couldn’t explain.”
Her bottle-rocket emotions seem to fizzle with a shrug of acceptance. “Okay, that’s valid.” She fiddles with her earring back, her mouth tugging into a frown. “Speaking of facing fires … I sent that email.”
I pull my gaze off our reflections in the mirror and gawk at my bestie, who just slayed her giant.
But just to be sure, I ask, “To the regional campus?” Tilly had a rough go of things in high school, academically speaking, and so, after she graduated, she’d sworn she’d never step foot into another classroom again.
Lately, she’s been toying with the idea of enrolling at a state college. “It’s all online, right?”
She bites her lip and nods. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going through with it. I just wanted more info on their communications program. That’s it.”
I bracket her narrow shoulders. “You can do this.”
“We’ll see.” She musters a smile. “Back to Leo. How am I supposed to act? Am I mad at him at all on your behalf? Is there any toilet-papering his house in the near future? Or do I hype you up? Guide me here.”
I know the change in conversation is more for her sake than mine, but I roll with it. “Nothing yet. But he’ll be stopping by the store Friday to discuss an antique.”
A knowing gleam enters her eyes. “So he’s inventing ways to see you again?”
I’m not sure that’s it. He’d planned on inquiring about the antiques before he knew I owned the store. Though something in my gut flips, nonetheless.