Page 4 of Never Sleigh Never

Her shoulders drop, and there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her gorgeous green eyes that are flecked with gold.

“Can’t,” she challenges, “or won’t?” Her voice catches, but her chin lifts again, and I can’t help but admire her persistence.

I heave a sigh, my resistance crumbling like brittle drywall under a heavy hammer, as I try and fail to remember a single extra job I’ve got scheduled for the next month. Still, “Why are you pushing so hard for this, anyway? Why the arm-twisting?”

Cara’s lower lip tucks between her teeth, and she tries to shrug off the question with a throwaway answer. Something about how a town like Magnolia Point should have a holiday festival to bring folks together. But I barely hear the words because something trips across her emerald eyes. An emotion I can’t quite read.

Not that I want to. I shake off the distraction and draw a deep breath, but as if she can sense my faltering, she leans in, her voice dropping. “Come on, Thomas. The festival needs someone practical like you. And I promise, I’ll do everything I can. I just need your…” she gestures vaguely at my arms, “your muscles.”

I lift an eyebrow, ignoring the curl of pleasure in my gut. “My muscles?”

She flushes a delicate pink but plows on as if she didn’t just pay me a compliment. “For heavy lifting, setting up booths, that sort of thing. Plus, you have the truck we could use.”

I lean against the counter, considering. Cara’s not more than a bit of a thing, easily less than two bundles of shingles. And she would probably—no, make that definitely—hurt herself trying to tackle the physical tasks a festival would require. Even if she wasn’t already sporting a splint on her wrist.

The thought of agreeing to help is…unsettling. Not because I’m concerned about spending time with Cara. She might be the kind of attractive a blind man would notice, but she’s always on the go. I’m a homebody. She’s always perfectly put together when I don’t think twice about the jeans and flannel I grab every morning. She’s the complete opposite of what I’d look for in a woman—if I were looking.

I heave a sigh, already regretting my next words. “I’ll think about it.”

Cara claps her hands, her smile threatening to split her face. I look away before I’m blinded by it and shove my hands into my worn jeans pockets. This woman knows as well as I do thatanswer’s basically a yes coming from me. She doesn’t need to see the resignation in my expression to confirm her suspicions.

“Oh, Thomas, thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise! Our first committee meeting is tomorrow night. At Coastal Charm. Seven p.m. See you there!”

“Said I’d think about it,” I grumble, but she’s already flying out the door, those green eyes flashing with triumph as she leaves behind a trail of flyers and the lingering scent of peppermint.

As the door closes, I shake my head, wondering what I’ve just gotten myself into. At least, there’ll be a committee. Other folks who canhandleCara while I fly under the radar.

I’m tugging down the blinds behind the counter, searching for the forest green dress Cara wore when Mrs. Henderson’s voice startles me. “That Cara,” she says, as if simply making conversation. “She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?”

I spin around, ignoring the way my pulse has quickened, and pretend I wasn’t watching for the woman who just sweet-talked me into helping her in less than five minutes flat—when I am not the type who falls for shit like that—as she sprints back across the street.

“More like a blizzard sweeping through town in heels,” I grumble.

Mrs. Henderson chuckles then pats my arm. “Sometimes, a little holiday magic is exactly what we need to shake things up. Plus, your father would be so proud of you for agreeing to help, you know.”

I grunt noncommittally as I reach for the sandpaper and stain while she rummages in her bottomless purse for her wallet. It’s only then I scan the flier Cara left on the counter and curse out loud.

Less than two weeks until the festival? She can’t be serious.

Cara

The cheerful jingle ofthe bell above the front door of my shop barely registers as I awkwardly fold a stack of mint green cashmere sweaters with one hand. Even two days after the fall, my wrist is still bandaged and my tailbone still smarts, but I force a smile as my best friend, Gabby, breezes in, her strawberry blonde hair swirling behind her.

“Hey, babe! I brought you a peppermint mocha and—oh my god, are you hurt?” Her eyes widen when she sees my splint as she sets the to-go cup on the counter.

I wave my good hand dismissively. “Just a little spill on the ice.”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

The concern in her voice would normally threaten to crack my carefully constructed facade. But, thanks to the plan I concocted on the way home from my disastrous date with Wayne, a genuine smile that fills my face. “I’m fine, really.”

Gabby eyes me, as if trying to get a read on howfineI really am, but the whirring and clicking from behind the counter distracts her. She glances over at the printer, and the stack of fliers on the tray is distracting enough that she drops the subject.

“What are you printing?”

“Fliers for the Main Street Holiday Festival.”

Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “A holiday festival? I didn’t know Magnolia Point had a holiday festival.”

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