Page 10 of Never Sleigh Never

“That’s what I’m here for. The muscles, remember?”

Oh, I remember all right.

“Well,” he says, jingling his keys. “I should get going. Early start tomorrow.”

I nod, suddenly not wanting him to leave. “Right, of course. Thanks again, Thomas, for coming tonight. It…it meant a lot.”

“I’ll see you off,” he says, dipping his chin toward my car, his voice like rough sandpaper.

See me off? Since when do men wait until a girl leaves to make sure they get on their way okay?Wayne would have been revving the engine of his beloved Beemer and pulling out of the lot by now.

Thomas escorts me to my car, close enough that his woodsy, clean scent drifts on the breeze. The scent is familiar now. It’s the same way he smelled the other night, at our committee meeting. It’s nothing like a fancy designer cologne but somehow, more appealing.

He holds open my car door, but I don’t slide in because he clears his throat and scuffs a boot on the gravel. There’s something on his mind, something bothering him, and I want to know what it is.

“Everything okay?”

He lifts that ballcap and rakes five fingers through his hair, blowing out a long breath. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, he firmly closes my door and steps back, crossing his arms over his chest.

As I start up the engine and turn onto the street, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. And suddenly, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about my vow—or Thomas Crawford—anymore.

Thomas

The hardware store isdark and eerily quiet. The usual hum of daytime customers and my guys cutting and stacking lumber to order is gone, replaced by the holiday station on the static-y old radio Cara insisted I turn on as we work.

I can’t remember the last time I was out here in the back lot past ten, let alone midnight, with the garage door to the store thrown wide open. But here we are, surrounded by old palletsand the pungent smell of paint. It’s a chilly night, but Cara hasn’t complained once as we put in the elbow grease it will take to bring her winter wonderland vision to life. Her wrist doesn’t seem to be bothering her, thank goodness. Although I’m keeping an eye on it to ensure she’s not overdoing things.

“Thanks for sticking around,” she says quietly, pausing as she meticulously paints one of the dozens of wooden snowflakes I cut with the jigsaw this afternoon. “Really, I…I appreciate it.”

I meet her sincere green gaze in the moonlight. “You’re welcome.”

A small smile and then she turns back to her work, her brow furrowed in concentration. Tonight, she’s a far cry from her usual polished self. Starting with a smudge of white paint on her cheek that’s…distracting. She’s got some sort of fabric headband holding her hair away from her face, but a handful of wayward golden tendrils have managed to escape. Her paint-splattered overalls are two sizes too big, and a faded Cole Heartwood sweatshirt completes the look.

“You missed a spot,” I say, gesturing with my chin.

She looks up, paintbrush poised mid-stroke. “Where?”

“Your face.”

Her hand flies to her cheek, spreading more paint across her skin. I can’t help but chuckle, the sound echoing in the quiet asphalt lot.

“Oh, real helpful,” she mutters, wiping her fingers on a rag, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

I shrug, turning back to the strand of lights I’m untangling. “Adds character.”

She snorts, a decidedly unladylike sound that catches me off guard. Never in a million years would I have expected this girl, who always presents such a carefully polished image, to make a sound like that. But I bite my tongue. Better not to point it out incase she slips back into the primmer and more proper version I don’t like nearly as much.

Actually, I take that back. Last night, at the city council meeting, she could have doubled for a Fortune 500 C-suite executive in that cream-colored sweater thin enough I could see the slim straps of a tank top through it. And those form-fitting navy slacks? God, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. And don’t get me started on the moment when she glanced up at me in the parking lot and asked if everything was okay. Because it’s not. Because I’m falling for this woman, who not only has a boyfriend but is so far out of my league it’s not even funny.

We work in silence for a while untilIt’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Yearcomes on. Cara announces this song is one of her favorites and starts quietly singing along. I peek over at her out of the corner of my eye. Her sweatshirt clings to her curves when she stretches to lay a snowflake aside and grab another. Curves I’d give anything to run my hands down.

“Remember the festival back in the day?” she asks, her tone tinged with nostalgia as she pulls me back from my daydream. “It was one of my favorite events of the entire season.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I snort, “but you couldn’t have been more than what, fifteen that last year?”

She gasps in mock offense. “I was sixteen, thank you very much.”

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