Page 61 of When in December

I swallowed, inhaling on my words, making them come out a little breathy and squeaky. “What are you looking at?”

He continued to stare. Maybe he wasn’t looking at my mouth.

I looked down at my shirt to see if I had anything on myself.

“You got sauce.” Aaron reached out toward my jaw. His thumb ran along a damp line. He pulled away, and as if he wasn’t even thinking, he stuck his thumb into his mouth, sucking off the sweet herbs and tomato with a graze of his tongue before wiping his hand on his jeans, plywood dust streaked across the thighs.

He cleared his throat while I couldn’t pull my eyes away.

Oz snatched the last piece of crust out of my hand as it drifted toward him.

“Where does this last piece go?”

thirteen

. . .

Poppy

“Home Haven Holiday Hotline, this is—”

“Hannah,” I cut her off. “Why are you not answering your phone?”

Hannah gasped over the line. “Poppy, you know you can’t call the hotline!”

“At least I know you’ll pick up,” I said.

I switched to speakerphone as I drove home after another day of working on the cabin. The bookshelves were up and looked spectacular, if I did say so myself. The last time I had done anything like it was when I wallpapered my aunt’s laundry room, which was all angles.

Everything was also, at last, painted with Aaron’s help—and not just the living room. Somehow, the next day I had come to the cabin, all the paint I had previously ordered weeks ago had been delivered—or miraculously found on the property.

I didn’t quite believe that one, but I didn’t bother to ask questions.

I painted the walls. Aaron shocked me with how good his cut-ins were.

I insisted that for the bedrooms and shared bath, we should wait for the painters to come back since they were already rescheduled, but Aaron argued, “This is my cabin, homemaker. Are you honestly going to tell the paying customer he’s wrong to want to paint his own house? I promise I won’t make it look bad enough to show up on camera for your little promotion competition.”

I relented. At least he was using the correct paint colors and not the horrendous orange I’d left out in the garage that I most certainly hadn’t ordered. He was even following my directions for some reason even though I had been able to do a lot more work since my hand, though tender, was healing up nicely.

“You completely messed up my queue rate here, Poppy!” Hannah cried over the phone, stealing me away from my constant slew of thoughts of the cabin.

“I’m asking you to go out for drinks, Hannah.”

“Wait.” She paused her horrified rant. “What?”

“I’ll meet you at the bar you like that’s around the corner from Home Haven,” I said. “The one with all the frosted mirrors and cushioned bar seats that make me feel like I’m in an Art Deco painting with the tacky gold trim?”

“Are you asking me on a date, Poppy Owens? I’m a highly in-demand woman this time of year, you know.”

For once, it did sound like usually cool-as-a-cucumber-mint-mojito Hannah really did need a drink.

Maybe two.

And maybe I did too. “Something might’ve happened. I need girl talk.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there at eight.”

Running my fingers over the stem of the tall white wineglass in front of me two hours later, I nursed a single pour of pinot grigio while I waited for Hannah to arrive. There were only so many glares I could take in the quickly filling bar over the seat I was saving.

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