Page 5 of Holly Ever After

“Thanks. You're a lifesaver.”

“Anytime. And think about calling Sean. There’s not many in the way of good tradesmen around here, especially this time of year. A woman can only do so much with a paintbrush and denial.”

“Denial’s my middle name,” I joke, but my laughter dies as I catch sight of the time. It’s late afternoon, and if I don’t start on the painting now, I’ll be doing it by the light of my phone.

I chug down the last of my coffee, grab the pastry for the road, and sling my scarf around my neck, bracing myself for the icy air outside. As I step out into the snowy streets, the holiday jingles echoing from shop to shop, I remind myself that this is home. It’s where I belong.

Even if home requires paint, repairs, and a potential confrontation with Sean.

But for now, it's just me and the open road—or rather, the icy, treacherous path back to my cottage.

Oh, the things we do for the promise of a fresh start.

Three

I'm halfway through painting my living room—a soft, inviting shade of teal that I'm hoping will magically transform this space into something habitable—when there's a knock on the door. I glance at the clock. It's too late for a postal delivery and too early for the apocalypse.

I contemplate not answering, but the knocking intensifies.

“For the love of God,” I mutter, throwing down my paintbrush and jogging to the door. My hair is pulled into a haphazard bun, and I've got more paint on me than the walls at this point, but I really couldn't care less.

When I swing the door open, I need to tip my head back to meet a face that belongs on the cover of GQ magazine rather than at my doorstep.

I know under that beanie there’s hair dark as rich soil, his eyes a shade even deeper. A jawline that could cut glass and a smile that, if rumors are to be believed, has a 100% success rate in melting the panties off women from here to Timbuktu. God, he's infuriatingly good-looking. His red flannel shirt is open, revealing a simple white T-shirt underneath that does nothing to hide his trim waist. His shoulders are broader than I remember.

When was the last time I saw him? It's been ages. Probably shortly after Mia was born. When I said I avoided him at all costs, I wasn't kidding.

Then he flashes that megawatt smile, and my brain finally catches up with the program.

“Sean, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Squirt.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, don't call me that,” I snap.

I hate that nickname. A nickname he created for me after I snuck into one of his parties when I was only sixteen. In my naivety, I had gone a bit too hard on the beer and was feeling woozy, lightheaded and almost embarrassed about how drunk I was. One second my head was in a toilet bowl, the next, I was in the passenger seat of Sean's car while he cursed me out, mumbling something about how he was going to kill me for going to the party when he warned me not to. I vaguely remember telling him to stick his lecture up his ass. At some stage during the party, I had stuffed a beer can in my bag. I have no idea why. But I later sat on it in the car. It resulted in an explosion of beer. Sean's car smelled like a brewery for over a week, and I waddled in home looking like I pissed my pants. He snuck me into my house with his hand over my mouth to stop me from giggling, then put me to bed like the gentleman he isn’t.

And that damned name? It stuck. For Sean at least.

“And wow,” he adds, ignoring my protest as he steps inside and looks around, “this place has got... charm. Yeah, let's go with charm.”

I squint at him. “Are you calling my house ugly?”

“I'm calling it a work in progress.”

“Such a diplomat.” I cross my arms.

“I wear many hats, but today, the carpenter's hat is on. At least I'm going to try to put it on. Not sure what exactly it'll take to save this place. It might be easier to just knock the damn thing down.”

I gasp, horrified. “You will do no such thing!”

He laughs. “Relax, Holls. I’m here to help.”

“You’re here to give me grey hairs.” I narrow my eyes at him, still not fully convinced that tearing down my new sanctuary isn't part of his agenda. “What are you really doing here?”

He looks slightly uncomfortable for a moment, which brings me immense satisfaction. “Mark asked me to come take a look at the place. Help out if I could.”

Damn it, Mark.

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