Page 9 of Mistletoe & Magic
He disappears into the hall and comes back with a stack of folded linens in his arms. They look freshly laundered, crisp and warm from wherever they’ve been hiding. So, Remy does do laundry. He hands them to me, and for a second our fingers touch.
It’s barely anything. Just skin brushing skin. But something flickers through me. I thank him quickly and glance away, trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up my neck.
He says nothing, just watches me. And when I glance back up, I see it. Not annoyance or frustration, but loneliness. It’s there in the tired set of his jaw. The quiet ache hiding behind those gray eyes. There’s sadness in him, too. The kind that settles deep. But underneath it...something else. A pull I can’t quite name.
I tilt my head, surprised by how much I want to understand him. What is he carrying that makes him so lonely? Why do I feel like I want to know more about him?
“Ideally, I’m out the door by six most mornings,” he says, voice low. “Junie’s bus comes at eight-ten. Are you okay with getting her up and out?”
I nod, relieved that he’s letting me stay on. “Of course.”
He gives a quick nod back, like that’s all the confirmation he needs.
“Thanks…for everything,” he adds, and just like that, he’s already moving toward the door.
I watch him go, with the way he fills the doorway withouteven trying, his shoulders broad and his posture tense. Even his walk has weight to it, like he’s bracing for something that might never happen.
And then he’s gone, the door clicking gently behind him.
I’m alone again. I let out a long breath and set the linens on the bed. The mattress squeaks a little as I strip off the stiff old sheets and replace them with the soft flannel ones he gave me. Snowflake print that’s faded, but cozy.
The heater rattles in the corner, yet it’s still cold.
I find an extra quilt in the closet and toss it on top of the bed, then add another. It feels like nesting. Like carving out a pocket of warmth in a life that’s still unsettling.
The shower is a little too chilly, but I crank the water up, anyway. The pressure’s decent, and the mirror fogs in seconds, and I wrap myself in a towel and brush my teeth with my feet curled against the cold tile floor.
When I finally crawl into bed, I’m wearing layers and burrowed under enough blankets to survive a blizzard. My phone buzzes once on the nightstand, but I ignore it. The silence is heavier now.
The heater hums, and snow falls outside the window in slow, patient rhythms.
I close my eyes, not sure what tomorrow will bring. Not sure what this job is becoming or how I ended up in Wisteria Cove with a single dad and a little girl who already feels like someone I’m meant to take care of.
But I know one thing. That man is carrying too much. And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Chapter 4
Remy
The door to my guest room clicks shut behind me, and I stand in the silence for a beat before heading down the hall. My feet feel heavy on the cold wood floor, my limbs twice as tired as usual from the long day.
The order backlog and more snow on the way had me working a double. I’m behind on everything and have so many things I still need to take care of here at home. Most days, I feel like I’m juggling plates, and they’re all crashing down one by one. I can’t get ahead or keep up, no matter what I do.
But then I did a double take when I walked into the kitchen earlier and looked around. It was like Mary Freaking Poppins had been here. For a second I wondered if I was in the wrong house. I’m grateful for my mom and Finn’s help, but I know I rely on them too much during my busy season. I need help. They both have their own jobs and lives and can’t be running to help me with mine all the time. It makes me even angrier with myself that I can’t keep it together.
I pause in the doorway of Junie’s room. Because she likes her door cracked, the hall light spilling across the rug, I gentlynudge it open and lean against the door frame. She’s out cold, hair fanned across the pillow, arms wrapped around her stuffed narwhal, cheeks flushed. The blanket’s pulled up to her chin, and there’s a little smile playing on her lips like her dreams are made of candy canes and mermaid treasure maps and all the things that make her happy. I can’t wait to hear all about them tomorrow.
I step inside and crouch beside her bed. Carefully, I press a kiss to her forehead and brush a strand of hair from her eyes. She shifts but doesn’t wake. The room smells clean, like lavender, maybe. The mermaid night-light glows softly in the corner. She never organizes her bookshelf that way on her own, even though she wants me to. It’s in rainbow order with every spine lined up as if someone had taken the time to sort them. Like someone cared enough to do it right.
Ivy.
Her dresser drawers are closed. No socks spill out and no clothes on the floor. I open one quietly and see everything folded, small and neat. She laid out her outfit for the morning at the foot of the bed. A soft red sweater. Jeans. Glittery socks.
I don’t even know where Ivy found those socks. I stand there for a second longer than I mean to. Then, I quietly pull the door almost shut and turn toward the kitchen, the knot in my chest lighter than it was when I came home.
I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I didn’t even realize it until the smell of something delicious hit me the second I stepped through the front door. I figured it was left over from whatever they had earlier.
I open up the fridge and see a plate wrapped in foil. A little sticky note slapped on top in pink marker with a skull and heart drawn below it.
