Page 11 of Lighting Up Christmas

“Mine?” He turned now, and even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she could feel them.

Sheesh. He probably imagined her skulking around his property in the dark.

“You would make a really good CIA interrogator,” she said and then nearly laughed at her stream of consciousness blurt. So much for her thirties ushering in a new era of poise. “I collected the vines long before you owned the property. The old vines had been part of a small, orphaned vineyard Grandpa Tully had planted as an experiment decades ago. A couple of rows had to be dug up to create a new fence line for another pasture the former owner, his granddaughter was going to lease out to a local farmer. Also, the former owner, Leah”—Riley struggled to say Leah’s name without the sad break in her voice—“wanted to create another trail through the woods for her students to ride that would link up with some of the snowshoeing trails up on Mount Ashland.

“I’d never seen old grape vines before—the long roots and the shapes and the wood being smooth in some place and gnarled in others was fascinating. I asked to take some even though at thetime I had no idea what to do with them or really any space to store them.”

Not that she had a lot of space now to store or to build the things she collected.

“I’ve owned the property for more than eight years.”

Suspicious much? Definitely an interrogator.

“I was a teenager when I collected the uprooted old vines,” she said, striving to remain cheerful and not sound defensive. She’d been born and raised in Bear Creek and Oregon’s beautiful Rogue Valley. He didn’t even live here full-time. “I worked in the horse barn on Sundays in exchange for riding lessons,” she found herself explaining. “I was able to fit eight in my truck.”

“Where are the other two vines?”

“What?” She felt like he’d zapped her back into the present. Strange, as she wasn’t usually a muller lost in the past. Maybe because it was the holidays and all of her family would be separated, pursuing their own lives and fun.

“You brought five today. One is in the gift shop. Where are the other two?”

Math. Why was this man distracting her so badly? It wasn’t just his looks. Or his magnetic aura. Or that he was an enigma. Or the way his hair was so thick and springy that it just begged her fingers to roam through the inky locks. It was the full package.

No. She had to get a grip. He definitely wasn’t getting to her. It was her fierce desire to land a commercial contract and his interest in her light that had her off her game.

“Two are at my house. One in my kitchen and one outside on my covered patio deck I built with my brothers.”

“And if I wanted to see those lights, would you run me off like you did today?”

“I thought you didn’t like choice,” Riley teased, smiling because she got him.

Only she didn’t. No expression except her own looking back at her. And she really wanted this sale.

Backing up now.

“I don’t know if I would use those words for our interaction this morning,” Riley recalibrated. “I made that light specifically for Sophia’s store. I personalized it for her, and this year’s been tough on her for a lot of reasons, one of them financial, and I didn’t want to put her in the position of parting with something she loved for money.”

She had not meant to be so rawly honest. And staring at her pale face scrunched with earnest pleading and vulnerability reflected in his dang mirrored aviators made her want to kick herself. And him. The shades gave him an unfair advantage. Where could she get some that didn’t cost half her monthly income?

“I like that you are loyal,” he said, unexpectedly, his voice low and thoughtful, and a weird river of warmth spread through her. “A good friend to your friends.”

“Friends and family first,” she whispered. “And community.”

He nodded and then stood under each light, looking up and then walking around to see them from different angles.

“It really depends on where you want to hang the light,” she said. “If you’d like, I could stand on a ladder or take off my work boots and stand on the bar and hold up each one, and you could take a picture before you choose the fixture you prefer.”

“Tell me about the rocks embedded in this rootstalk.”

“Aren’t those cool?” Riley was thrilled that he’d noticed her favorite light. She gently touched each pebble she’d forced into the grooves along the gnarled root. “They’re almost translucent. I took a long time thinking about what colors and shapes to put together. I found the stones in the vineyard row that had been pulled up. I’ve always loved rocks and shells. I collect things, and I don’t even know why. I just feel compelled and thenlater, sometimes years, I find a new home for them—a place to belong.”

She pressed her lips together. As usual, she was talking too much—giving too much away and likely boring him.

“A place to belong,” he murmured, his voice so low, more like a thought that she found herself leaning toward him.

That’s what we all want.

Riley’s errant thought pierced her—it’s why she loved the valley, Bear Creek, the family business. She’d wanted to belong. She needed to, and she did. Her roots were deep and nourished.

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