Page 12 of Holly Ever After

Feeling the need for some liquid courage—though settling for caffeine—I make my way to the coffee cart in the square. I order two large coffees. My eyes land on the display of festive cookies. On a whim, I grab two: a cute Christmas tree one for myself and a Grinch cookie for Sean. Because if anyone embodies the spirit of the Grinch right now, it's him.

Armed with my caffeine and cookies, I head back to the house. I step in, closing the door softly behind me, and immediately the tension in the air hits me like a ton of bricks. Sean is where I left him, engrossed in his work, tools and wood shavings scattered around him like the aftermath of some carpentry war zone. His flannel shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, sawdust clinging to the fabric and his work boots. He doesn't even look up, and it's infuriating how a man can look so damn attractive while being so damn annoying.

“Thought you might need this.” I place the Grinch cookie and coffee next to him and set my own on the kitchen counter. He finally glances up, eyes meeting mine for a split second before falling on the cookie.

“What's this? A peace offering?” he grumbles, not pausing his work.

“If it is, would you accept it?”

He chuckles darkly, grabbing the cookie and taking a bite before meeting my eyes from across the room.

The muscles in his jaw tick. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that I will never know peace around you.”

“You sure you don't want to leave?”

He stops, power drill in hand, and sighs. “Look, I said I'd help you, so I'm here, alright? Don't make me regret it more than I already do.”

I feel a pang of something—guilt, maybe, or sympathy. But my pride won't let me show it. “Fine, stay,” I say, my voice softer. “Just don't expect me to singKumbayawith you.”

He grins, a real grin this time, and for a moment, the tension eases. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

The moment I sit back down at my writing desk, I can't help but take in the changes around the cottage. Despite the temptation to label Sean as a mere thorn in my side, the reality is more complicated. The man is skilled, damn it, and my place is already looking more charming.

The old, worn shelves are replaced by sleek, sturdy oak that seamlessly fits with the rustic decor. There's a finesse to his handiwork—clean lines, smooth surfaces, and joins so precise they're almost invisible. It's not just competent work. It's art. Each new addition transforms the room, making it feel both fresh and familiar, like a beloved book you've read a dozen times but can't help diving into again.

The way he's arranged the wooden panels in a geometric pattern reveals an attention to detail that's both impressive and infuriating, mainly because it reminds me how he's not just the brawny builder with calloused hands; there's a thoughtful brain behind those dark eyes, too.

And then there's the fireplace. My old, underused fireplace now looks like something straight out of a home design magazine. He's retiled the hearth with intricately patterned tiles that capture every hue of the room, turning what was once merely functional into a focal point. It's an undeniable improvement, a stark contrast to the chipped, dated tiles that were there before.

I hate that I love it all so much. The improvements are exactly to my taste, even though we never discussed it in detail.

I refocus on my laptop screen, painfully aware that if Sean's handiwork can inspire anything, it's the drive to make my own work just as good. And just like that, my fingers start to dance across the keyboard.

Seven

The man is insufferable. It’s been a week. A week is all it takes for Sean to drive me insane.

Most of the time we don’t even speak, and he still manages to find my last nerve just to stomp all over it.

He’s a barbarian. Yesterday, he drank water straight from the tap. Who does that? He didn’t use a glass, just suctioned his mouth around the streaming water. His tools are flung around with a carelessness that’s borderline artistic, and he breathes. That’s it. He just breathes.

I’ve been pounding on my keyboard all morning, sitting at my kitchen table wearing every layer I own. Sean is wearing his work clothes, no jacket, hat, scarf, gloves, or thermals. How is he not freezing his balls off?

I can’t feel my fingers.

“Can you please close the door?” My teeth are clacking so much I’m surprised they don’t crack.

He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead before looking up at me. “I’m using strong adhesive. Do you want to choke on the fumes? I already told you that you should get out of here for the day.”

I roll my eyes, or at least I think I do. My eyeballs are probably frozen too. “I’ve got things to do here. Like die from hypothermia. Besides, I don’t want to leave. I’m finally writing again, and I don’t want to jynx anything.”

“When your fingers fall off from frost bite you won’t be worrying about what you write.”

I flip him the middle finger and smile. “They look like they’re still working just fine to me.”

He runs a frustrated hand over his face. “Can you just go inside your bedroom? I’m cold looking at you. Get under a blanket or something.”

I open my mouth to reply, but how can I tell him that my room is a Sean-free zone? My desperate-for-creativity brain has detached Sean’s unbearable personality from the Adonis-like body it inhabits. Oh, and it’s a masterpiece. My fingers are burning up the keyboard, but my eyes are feasting—on the straining muscles, on the jeans hugging his thighs as he climbs, and on the flash of abs when he stretches. As of yesterday, the cowboy in my story is now a part-time carpenter.

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