Chapter 3 #2
He asks what I'm editing. I tell him about the romance manuscript.
He says his mom reads romance novels, has a whole shelf of them.
I ask about his mom. He tells me about his mom, who apparently runs the wreath barn on the farm every Christmas season, knows everyone's business, and is probably already planning my introduction to Whisper Vale society.
He says this with a fondness that softens his whole face.
I ask about the tree farm. He explains the growth cycle.
Seven to ten years per tree from planting to harvest. How you shear them in summer to shape the growth, thin the branches so light reaches the interior.
How the farm opens in late November for cut your own season, families driving hours to pick their tree.
"You grow them for a decade and then people cut them down in an afternoon."
He looks up from the floor. "That's the whole point.
They don't live in the ground forever. They live in somebody's living room for a month, covered in ornaments and lights, with presents underneath and kids sleeping next to them on Christmas morning.
The tree has one job, and it gets ten years to prepare for it. "
I don't know what to say to that. It's unreasonably beautiful for a man on his knees in a crawlspace.
A knock at the side door saves me from having to respond.
"Yoo hoo! Hello? New neighbor? I'm Donna Holloway, Briggs's mother, and I've brought muffins!"
Briggs closes his eyes. "Don't let her in the bedroom."
"Why?"
"Because she'll see me on your floor and we'll be engaged by sundown."
Too late. Donna Holloway is already in my kitchen.
She's small, silver haired, bright blue eyes, carrying a basket that could feed a family of six.
She and Patty Cole from across town are thick as thieves, and between the two of them, nothing happens in Whisper Vale without a casserole showing up within the hour.
She sweeps through the room with the confidence of a woman who has never once been told no, spots the hallway, spots me, spots Briggs through the doorway on his knees in my bedroom, and her face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree from his own damn farm.
"Oh, Briggs. How lovely that you're helping."
"Mom."
"I'm Donna." She takes my hand with both of hers. "Welcome to Whisper Vale, sweetheart. You're even prettier than Tom Parker said. Muffins are cinnamon. I've also got a list of contractors, a welcome packet from the ladies' auxiliary, and the number for Doc Morrison in case you need anything."
"That's incredibly kind of you." And it is. Despite the matchmaking gleam in her eyes that's so intense it's practically audible.
"Briggs, why don't you take a break and have a muffin with us."
"I'm in the middle of the floor, Mom."
"The floor can wait. Margot just moved here. She needs a proper welcome."
He emerges from the bedroom, sawdust in his beard, pencil still behind his ear. Donna hands him a muffin the size of his fist. He takes it. Eats half in one bite. She beams.
For twenty minutes, Donna Holloway fills my kitchen with warmth and conversation while Briggs leans against the counter eating muffins and saying nothing.
She tells me about the Christmas festival, the general store, Holly Pearce's bakery.
She asks about my work, my family, whether I'm settling in.
She doesn't ask about a husband, which tells me she already knows.
When she leaves, it's with a hug I didn't expect to need and a promise to check on me next week.
"Your mom is terrifying," I say after the door closes.
"Yep."
"She already has us married."
"She had us married before she walked in."
I hand him another instant coffee. He takes it without complaint. Our eyes meet over the mugs, and he holds the gaze for a beat too long. I look away first.
He finishes the floor by noon. New boards, sanded smooth, sealed with something he brought from his barn that smells like linseed oil. The bedroom is transformed. Solid underfoot for the first time since I moved in.
"Thank you." I mean it this time. Fully. Without the grudge stitched through it.
"You're welcome." He's packing up tools, kneeling to gather screws into a pouch. I crouch to help, grabbing the measuring tape that's rolled under the new baseboard.
We reach for it at the same time.
His hand closes over mine. Warm, rough, calloused. My breath catches. Just stops. His fingers tighten. Not pulling away, not pushing forward. Just holding.
I look up. He's right there. Inches. Those blue eyes with the gold flecks near the center that I never noticed in college because I was too busy hating him to look closely. Sawdust on his cheekbone. The pencil still behind his ear. His gaze drops to my mouth, and everything in my body goes hot.
He's going to kiss me. I can feel it in the tension of his hand over mine, in his breathing gone shallow, in the absolute stillness of a man who's been patient for fifteen years and is running out of reasons to keep being patient.
And I want him to. God help me, I want him to.
Princess Buttercup yowls from the kitchen. Loud, demanding, ear splitting.
We pull apart. Both of us. Fast. His hand drops. Mine pulls back to my lap. He stands, grabs the tool pouch, and takes a step toward the door.
"I should let you get to work."
"Right. The manuscript." My voice is doing something embarrassing. Breathy. High. I clear my throat. "Thank you. For the floor."
"Eight bucks at the hardware store." He's already in the hallway. "The premium ones."
And then he's gone. Side door closing behind him. Tinsel barking once in greeting as they cross back through the trees.
I sit on my new bedroom floor. Solid, warm wood under my palms. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
Briggs Holloway almost kissed me.
And I almost let him.
I pull out my phone. Open the contact for my best friend Layla in Portland.
Me:
I need you to talk me out of something.
Layla:
Ooh. Scale of 1 to 10 how bad?
Me:
Remember the guy from college I told you about? Ryan's roommate? The one who destroyed my relationship?
Layla:
Briggs something? The villain of every drunk rant you've given for the past decade?
Me:
He lives next door.
Layla:
WHAT
Me:
And he just spent the morning fixing my bedroom floor. And I think he tried to kiss me. And I think I wanted him to.
Layla:
Margot. Margot Elaine Hemmings.
Me:
I know.
Layla:
WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THAT MOUNTAIN TOWN
I put the phone face down. Lean my head back against the wall. Through the window, I can see him crossing his yard. Tinsel at his heels. He pulls the beanie off, runs one hand through his hair. Stops at the splitting stump, picks up the axe, and starts chopping.
From my bedroom window, I watch Briggs Holloway split firewood with the efficiency of a man born to it. Each swing controlled. Each log splitting clean. Muscles working under the thermal. Forearms. Shoulders. Back.
My phone buzzes.
Layla:
You still there? Margot??? DON'T YOU DARE KISS THE VILLAIN.
I pick it up.
Me:
Too late. Almost.
Layla:
ALMOST ISN'T A NO.
She's right. It isn't.
And that's the problem.