Chapter 16
Beads of sweat roll down the line of my spine.
Five more to go.
I up the volume of my playlist and determine to finish this workout better than I started—which was me half-asleep and nearly dropping a twenty-pound dumbbell on my foot. After this, I have an hour to grab a shower, dress, and snag some breakfast before meeting Leo at the shop.
I nearly crest my chin-up when a brisk knock makes me jolt. I release the bar and land steadily on my feet. Swiping my forehead with my wrist, I glance at my door. Must be a delivery person. I’m expecting a few items for the store, and all the local drivers know to check upstairs if I’m not below.
It’s a bit early to get a package, though shipping companies extend their hours during the holidays. I once got a toaster at 1 a.m. After a swig of water, I open the door and am hit with a blast of cold and the awareness that Leo’s standing a few feet away.
“Uh, hi.” I try to act casual even as a drop of sweat falls off my nose. Lovely.
His eyes scan over me in all my post-workout glory—which is me looking flushed, disheveled, and sporting perspiration stains in key areas. He clears his throat. “I knocked downstairs, but no one answered.”
I usher him inside because the moisture’s freezing on my face.
Once I close the door, a surge of panic slices through me.
Did I leave my bra on the couch? Is something disgusting in my sink?
I sneak a sweeping glance. I’m positive my ceiling fan blades are fuzzy and the counter’s cluttered, but nothing alarming strikes me.
I did put up my Christmas tree the other day, so I don’t look like a grinchy Santa. “I thought we were meeting at eight.”
“Didn’t you say seven?” He pulls out his phone, no doubt to check his calendar.
“I probably did.” Crap. I really need to start writing things down. “Sorry, I got my times mixed up.”
He takes my orderless ways in stride and offers a smile. “We can do this another time.”
“No,” I say a little too quickly. “It’s my stupid fault. I don’t have much time to delay with this Santa stuff.” I grab the bulky folder off the counter. “Here are the letters.” I watch his eyes widen. “Yeah, it’s a lot. Hence, why I’m freaking out.”
“We got this.” Our hands brush as he takes the folder, which, under any other circumstances, would’ve sent a spike of awareness through me. But all I’m noticing is how slick and hot my skin is.
I resist the urge to use the bottom of my tank top to wipe my face. “Maybe you can browse the letters while I grab a quick shower. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” He settles on my couch, and the nearby glow from the tree is working its whimsical sway because now I’m imagining Leo and me sharing buttered popcorn, watching Christmas movies with our feet tangled.
I hate to shake the daydream, but my reality needs addressing and more deodorant. “There’s fruit and cinnamon rolls on the table if you want.”
His mouth moves into a smile far too appealing for seven in the morning. “That’s like two ends of the food spectrum.”
I shrug, drawing his attention to my bare shoulders. “With me, it’s either super healthy or junk food. There’s no in-between. Anyway, I’ll be right back.” And I head off to take the world’s fastest shower.
Less than ten minutes later, I return to the living room in sweats, my wet hair in a messy topknot.
Upon my entering, Leo glances over. Those dark eyes make a slow trek over my face, stirring me to wonder if any of those secrets swirling in his gaze are ever about me.
I realize this is the first time he’s seen me without makeup.
Not like it’s a big deal, but he told me authenticity in his world was scarce.
Maybe a bare-faced Greta is a novelty to him.
We’re caught in this uncertain moment until my stomach growls.
Leo smiles.
Wonderful. I snag a cinnamon roll from the table along with a couple paper towels—because I know myself and my messy ways—and join him on the sofa.
He settles back against the cushion. “Can I make another suggestion?”
“Skip the hassle and run off to the Caribbean?” I have enough in my bank account now for a lifetime supply of SPF 75 sunscreen. “I’m joking. Mostly. Now tell me your idea.”
“I think you need to be more organized.”
“I’m fresh out of that skill, but can I interest you in some self-deprecating humor or witty deflections? I can roll those out all day long.”
Leo’s not falling for my redirection tactic. “I promise it’ll make your life easier.”
I groan and bite off a hunk of my cinnamon roll.
This conversation needs a serving, or twenty, of sugary carbs.
“I can try to do better. Though I think it’ll be a failed effort.
” Like the time I tried to wax my own eyebrows.
It was painful, and I ripped off half the arch of my right brow.
I had to pencil the rest in for a couple of months.
Sadly, my senior pictures were during that season.
In the end, I learned to stay away from DIY wax kits, and Gran learned she could pay extra for Photoshop editing.
Leo glances at the folder between us. “A few of the letters were beat up. I couldn’t read them.”
“Ugh, yeah.” I snatch my water bottle from the table and wash down my breakfast. “Some Scrooge swiped the letters from the café community mailbox and trashed them. Tilly salvaged what she could.” But I agree.
Some of those letters are hardly legible.
What if one of those ruined entries was written by the perfect candidate?
“Might be wise to invest in locked, slotted boxes for next year.”
I don’t want to think about next Christmas. I’m struggling with this one.
“I started weeding out the letters that have no contact information.” He lifts a small pile of papers. “Unfortunately, since there’s no way to reach these people, you can count them out.”
I nod. “Those are probably from people who submitted their letters at the in-store mailboxes. There’s no envelope or email address on them to trace back.
” I grab my phone, open my notes app, and, like the recovering messaholic I am, jot down reminders for the future, such as discovering ways to ensure candidates include their contact info and Leo’s suggestion about buying locked mailboxes.
“Okay. We’re making progress.” I glance at the pile, then at him. “Do any of them scream at you?”
He exhales. “There are a lot of needs. I didn’t get a chance to read through them all, but the ones I did are heart-wrenching.”
“Right? And my main issue is how to know which are legit.”
“Let’s work through them, one at a time.” He picks up the stack of letters. “We’ll see how much headway we can make in an hour and go from there.”
I appreciate him taking the time to help, but I feel bad.
Yeah, we made a bargain, but I’m not sure I can hold up my end of the deal in finding him the Vallerton.
Though just to let him know I’m trying, I say, “I’ve reached out to several of Gran’s old contacts in the antique world.
I didn’t before because many of them are retired.
I’m hoping they might know someone who can give us a lead. ”
“Thank you.” He gives an appreciative smile, but the skin around his eyes tightens. I noticed this shift in mood the day he’d first asked about the antiques. Something tells me there’s a story behind this search, and, judging by his previous reluctance, it might not be one with a happy ending.
“I remember you saying the antiques aren’t for you. Can I ask who they’re for?”
He sets the folder between us on the sofa, a frown settling between his dark brows.
“If it’s too personal, you don’t have to tell.”
“Last Christmas.” He sits forward and clasps his hands between his open knees, his gaze fixing on the rug. “The housefire that happened the night of our date. It was brutal.” He exhales a ragged breath. “An elderly couple was inside.”
I gasp, but he continues. “The husband came out first, thinking the wife was already rescued. When he didn’t see her, he went back into the flames.
” Leo’s large frame is rigid and tense, but it’s the haunted notes in his glower that has my heart tearing at the edges.
“What sucks is, the wife was rescued. The firefighter brought her out the back door. The husband didn’t know, and he went on searching for her.
By the time I got to him, he’d collapsed from smoke inhalation.
” He shook his head. “He didn’t make it. ”
I cover my open mouth. How awful. “And his wife?”
“She survived, but she’s heartbroken. They’d been married over sixty years.”
My eyes sting. This couple shared a long love like Gran and Pap. Pap grieves his bride in his own way, and I know he misses her, especially during her favorite season. But this? It’s tragic on so many levels.
“If the husband only waited another couple of minutes, he’d still be alive.” Leo’s voice is heavy with regret. “He didn’t think. Just ran back into the fire.”
“Of course he did. Because love doesn’t think.
It acts.” I glance away to swipe at the tears collecting on my lower lashes.
“He did all he could to make her world right again. Even if it cost him. Because that’s what sacrificial love does.
It gives without a second thought.” Leo’s gaze is on me, and I’m unsure if it’s because I got emotional or because I talked too much.
“I visited her a couple months after everything happened.”
“Do you usually do that? Visit the families, I mean?”
He swallows. “Sometimes. This one was different. It was tough on me.” He’s staring at the rug again. “I hadn’t lost anyone before. I replayed that night a thousand times, thinking about what I could’ve done to get to him sooner.”
Then it clicks. This must be the incident Fletcher had referred to at the firefighters’ charity event. “I’m sure you did all you could. My heart aches for the widow, but I hope you aren’t taking any guilt.”
He keeps quiet, which is an answer in itself.