Page 14 of Under the Mistletoe

“I am!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Torch reached down and picked up the next piece as he said, “Remember those old tire swings Stitch put up at the clubhouse?”

“Yeah, I remember them.” I rolled my eyes. “I also remember you swinging with everyone but me.”

“I swang with you.”

“No, you didn’t,” I argued. “You wouldn’t even push me.”

“Seriously?” He shook his head. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I do, but it’s not a big deal. I got used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“You and the girls ignoring me and treating me like a dumb kid.”

“You were six years younger than us.”

“Oh, I know.” I held a piece in place as he screwed it in. “I was reminded of it all the time, especially when we got older.”

“I had my reasons for keeping my distance.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Okay, then why don’t you explain it to me?”

He studied me for a moment, then shook his head and grumbled, “Damn. You always were bullheaded.”

“How would you know?”

“Oh, I know. I’ve always known.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then got back to work on the swing. In no time, it went from looking like a pile of rubble to an actual swing set. As we worked, I couldn’t help but steal glances at him. It was hard to be so close to him. It brought back so many memories, but something felt different.

He felt different.

I stole another glance and noted the faint lines of concentration on his face. His hands were rough and calloused, and he worked with a steady precision that felt almost considerate.

It was unnerving.

This was the same man who’d broken my heart and made me swear I'd never look back. Yet here he was, crouched down beside me, guiding the final bolt into place.

When he caught me watching, he didn’t smirk or throw some careless remark like he did back when we were kids. Instead, his eyes met mine—steady and kind, and he smiled as he said, “Almost done.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, looking away before he could see too much.

After a few more minutes, he had it all pieced together and took a step back to admire our work. “Not half bad.”

Ava sat down on one of the swings, and Torch gave her a little push. Her laugh was infectious as he pushed her higher and higher, and it wasn’t long before Torch and I were laughing right along with her. “She’s a cute kid.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“How old is she? Three? Four?”

“Four. Almost five.”

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