Page 60 of Christmas in Paradise

There’s no forgetting Hope Lytle. No matter how hard I might try.

First, because we’re supposed to be working together on Yulefest. Carson wants us to plan things in person because our time is short, and he’s convinced her that we’re more effective when we plan things out face to face. What she doesn’t know is that Carson is only saying that because he thinks it’s what I want. We could coordinate everything by text or email. Which is what we’ve been doing because I keep putting off meeting.

Secondly, I can’t forget Hope because she’s everywhere I go in this small town. Since the night of the dog-bite fiasco at my house, I’ve had to dart out of Britta’s and Thomsen’s Grocery and the Garden at least half a dozen times to avoid running into her. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she wastryingto run into me.

I fumbled badly the other night. I’m nervous about trying again, even though she said she hopes I don’t give up on her. Her encouragement should have boosted my own confidence, but instead all I can think about is how she and Charly deserve someone better than me.

The last reason I can’t forget her is that, when I shut the tailgate of my truck, and finally look at the other car in the parking lot, Hope is opening the back door of the car where Charly is buckled in.

I rake my hand through my hair and sigh. There’s nowhere to run, and she’s obviously here to see me. The other businesses in this strip are a barber and a bar. Hope doesn’t need a haircut—even if she did, Larry’s go-to is a buzz cut—and it’s nine am. She might need a drink this early, but she’s not taking her baby into a bar.

Plus she’s already waved to me, and I’m transfixed watching her help Charly out of the car. She leans far into the backseat to get something, and I’m reminded what attracted me to her the first time I saw her from behind.

If only that were the only thing I was still attracted to. But there’s so much more to Hope than her tiny waist and perfect… figure.

There’s her natural intelligence. Her scrappiness. Her courage. Her kindness, her patience, her sense of humor, her gentleness.

Hope is the whole package.

It’s the little something extra that has me running away every time I see Hope.

The little something extra who’s waving to me now, tugging at my heart string when she calls out, “Hi, Sebby!”

Hope has her big purse on one shoulder and holds Charly’s hand while she carries a cardboard box in her other arm.

“Sebby,” Charly repeats a few more times, like she enjoys the sound of it.

I enjoy the sound of her saying it, that’s for sure.

I think I’m falling for Charly as hard and as fast as I’m falling for Hope, and that scares the salt right out of me. A twenty-eight-year-old-man who still lives with his mother and can’t even potty train a puppy has no business falling for a woman with a three-year-old who has special needs.

That fact was made painfully clear to me when Charly nearly got run over and dog-bit in the one hour she was with me.

For that reason, I wish I could ignore the happy feeling creeping into my chest as Charly tugs Hope in my direction, still calling my name.

When she gets to me, she sticks out her hand and says words that I translate into, “I’ve got an owie.”

She points to the band-aid on her palm, right where Uncle Rad bit her. Words come out of her mouth so quickly that it takes a little longer for me to interpret them this time, but I think it’s, “I have a Band-aid, and Uncle Rad bit me. Where’s Uncle Rad? I want to play with her.”

And while the band-aid is a painful reminder of what happened, I can’t help but be proud of the fact I can understand her happy chatter better than I used to.

“That’s a nice Band-aid, Charly.” I bend down to meet her at eye-level without reminding myself to do it. “Uncle Rad’s inside, but are you sure you want to play with her after she bit you?”

Hope coughs, and I look up to see her making a cutting motion across her throat. When I look back at Charly, she’s got a confused look on her face.

“I wuv Unkuhrad,” she says, then pulls Hope toward the open back door calling, “Unkuhrad! Come’re puppy!”

“Let me take that,” I say and lift the box out of her arms before she can protest.

Then I follow her, a little confused by what’s happening. I thought Charly would never want to see Uncle Rad again, but she didn’t think twice about giving her a second chance.

Between being pulled by Charly and hitching her giant purse higher, Hope says over her shoulder, “Charly’s already forgotten about what happened with Uncle Rad. That scrape was on her other hand, and it’s already gone. She grabbed something hot with that hand and insisted on a band-aid, because she loves them, not because she needed it.”

“Oh.” My shoulders relax for the first time since Tuesday night.

I set the box down when we reach Uncle Rad’s crate, and after getting a blanket for Charly to sit on, I let Uncle Rad out for her to pet.

Hope stands close to me. I tell myself I should give her more space, but my feet don’t listen. Our arms are inches apart as we watch Uncle Rad put her paws on Charly’s shoulders and lick her face. Charly giggles madly and rolls to her knees. The wrestling match between the two of them that follows almost makes my chest burst.

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