Page 2 of Never Sleigh Never

Wayne shifts from foot to foot in his leather wingtip loafers, darting a glance at the EMTs. There he goes again with the odd behavior. He probably can’t think of how to reassure me he’ll happily wait a year to taste the pie I bake from scratch.

“Actually, Cara,” he says, clearing his throat, “I think I’m going to go solo to Christmas dinner.”

I shake my head to clear what must certainly be cotton balls in my ears. “I’m sorry, what?”

He smoothly slips the phone back into the pocket of his designer jeans. “It’s just… It’s a family thing, you know? And we’ve only been dating a few months…”

I stare at him, my vision going in and out of focus as my mind reels.Only a few months?What does that have to do with it? Sure, we only met on the Fourth of July, but we’ve beenserioussince Labor Day. At least, I thought we were.

I feel my carefully composed manner cracking, and I scramble, desperate to hang on to some semblance of our perfect relationship before it slips away. “But…but weren’t you going to propose on Christmas? Or, if not Christmas, maybe New Year’sEve? Or New Year’s Day, that would be romantic, too. A way to ring in the new year in style.”

His brows knot together. Wayne’s browsneverknot together.

“Propose?” he chokes out.

Am I speaking a foreign language?The EMT has stopped wrapping my wrist, but his pause barely registers. “Yeah, propose, as in get down on one knee, pop the question, ask for my hand, make it official, seal the deal? You know,propose.”

“I…I…” Wayne stammers, taking a step back, then another.

I glance around, certain it’s not me who’s not making any sense in this conversation, but the EMTs’ card game has come to a screeching halt, and they’re all watching Wayne and me as if we’re stars on a reality TV show.

Am I on some sort of hidden camera?

“I wasn’t going to propose on Christmas, Cara,” Wayne says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Or New Years. In fact, I was planning to break up with you. Today.”

Thomas

The best smell inthe world, the sharp scent of fresh-cut lumber, fills my nostrils this Monday morning as Mrs. Henderson shuffles slowly behind me down aisle three. The buzz of one of my guys, cutting some two-by-fours with the crosscut panel saw out back, is music to my ears.

“For a project like your mantel,” I explain, grabbing a package of fine-grit sandpaper and speaking loud enough for her to hear,“you’ll start with a light once-over with this. Then wipe it down with a tack cloth to remove the dust and apply the stain.”

“Stain?”

I spin and reach for a can of interior-grade. “You’ll want something oil-based that will give an even finish.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Henderson says, nodding. “The mantel has to be perfect to hold my new holiday garland. I just finished cross-stitching mini stockings for each of my grandchildren.”

“I’m sure they’ll love them,” I offer through clenched teeth, handing her the can.Why does everything this time of year have to be about the holidays?Especiallyperfectholidays, which are about as real as Santa Claus.

Mrs. Henderson accepts the can I thrust her way as I focus on the tactical advice she needs. “You’ll want to apply two coats letting it dry for twenty-four hours in between.”

Her brow pinches as if she’s worried she won’t remember my directions.

“I can write that down for you at the counter,” I offer, already reaching for the pencil tucked behind my ear.

Her deep-set eyes brighten. “You would? Well, that would be marvelous, dear. My Fred never needed your father to write down directions when he stopped by for supplies, but of course, now that they’re both gone—”

“Let’s get you rung up,” I say gruffly, cutting her off and heading toward the register before she traps me for an extended walk down memory lane when I’ve got a delivery that needs unloading.

The front door opens, and a gust of cool, crisp air sweeps in, carrying the unmistakable scent of…peppermint? That, along with the click-clack of heels against the worn wooden floor, sends warning bells ringing in my head.

An instinct that’s confirmed when I round the end cap and spot the owner of the shop across the street, Cara Livingston,breezing in, her short blonde hair perfectly in place despite the wind whipping down Main Street.

“Thomas!” she chirps, her ruby red lips curving into a determined smile when she spots me. “Just the man I wanted to see!”

I don’t bother to hide my annoyance. Cara’s bubbly enthusiasm for anything and everything is a little much. I give her a curt nod. “Cara.”

She beams, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore my less-than-warm welcome, and she turns to Mrs. Henderson. “And how are you today, Mrs. H? Excited for the holidays?”

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