Page 3 of Fa-La-La-La Faking It
He laughed and the low timbre of his voice rumbled through her. “An honest mistake.”
Was it, though? Her day was getting more humiliating by the second.
“His name is Fuzz.” She gestured toward the little spaniel, now splayed belly up with his head resting on the man’s work boots. “But I usually just call him Fuzzy.”
“Cute.” He obediently gave Fuzzy’s soft pink belly a good scratch. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Fuzzy?”
Fuzzy’s feathery tail swished back and forth on the smooth tile floor. His felt antlers went lopsided, and he pawed at them until they were slung over his face, perfectly positioned for the puppy to bite at them like they were one of his plushy holiday-themed dog toys.
Adaline squatted down to fasten the antlers back in place. Fuzzy writhed around on his back for a few seconds before popping into a sit position liked they’d been practicing with the other Comfort Paws dogs. He remained still until the antlers were positioned just so, save for a few giddy glances at the lumberjack.
“I knew it. Definitely a good boy.” The lumberjack nodded.
Such a charm offensive right on the heels of her encounter with Mr. Martin had Adaline’s emotions pinging all over the place. She took a steadying inhale, and suddenly her senses were filled with warm cedar, crisp pine needles and fresh country air.
She blinked, head spinning with nostalgia.
“You okay there, Adaline?” The lumberjack tilted his head. There were those dimples again. And this time, there was something oddly familiar about them.
“You smell like a Christmas tree farm,” she blurted. “Is that a weird thing to say? It is, isn’t it?”
“Not as weird as you’d think.” A grin cracked his scruffy jaw. “Would it be out of line if I told you that you smell like sugar and frosting?”
“Cherry on Top.”
His dark eyes met hers. “Pardon?”
“It’s my bakery.” She gestured in the general direction of downtown Bluebonnet. “Located right on the historic town square.”
He nodded. “I think I spotted it earlier this morning. Maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”
“I’d like that.” Adaline gathered Fuzzy in her arms and stood. As she did, her gaze snagged on the numbers of room 212 and her eyes rolled of their own accord. Oops.
“Don’t let him get you down.” The lumberjack’s gaze flitted toward the door and then back at her, flush with warmth. Adaline almost felt like a kid on Christmas morning. What was it about this guy? “Like I said, it’s not you, it’s him.”
Adaline scrunched her face and whispered, “You might be right. Mr. Martin is very much a grinch.”
She really hoped this man wasn’t on staff at the senior center or worse, a relative of the Grinch in question.
“As I recall, the Grinch liked dogs, though. So that’s kind of an insult to grinches everywhere if you really think about it.” He regarded her thoughtfully, and again, a sense of nostalgia tugged at her heart. Her legs went wobbly, like she’d stepped inside a snow globe and someone had given it a good, hard shake.
Then, all at once, everything clicked. Those dimples. That effortless charm. The last nameMartin.
No wonder he’d popped up right outside room 212.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked, heart pounding, because she already knew.
“I didn’t, actually,” he said, and the kindness in his gaze was suddenly too much, because she knew it wasn’t real. It never had been—not even all those years ago when she’d still believed in things like Santa Claus and schoolgirl crushes. “But it’s—”
She held up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t say it.” She held Fuzzy more tightly to her chest as if he were a living, breathing security blanket. Which was sort of true, since he was a therapy dog.
The puppy whined in solidarity. A very good boy, indeed.
Adaline glared at the lumberjack, whose name she couldn’t have forgotten if she’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried!
Jace Martin.
