Page 21 of Mistletoe & Magic
“I heard you’ve been going on dates, too,” I say softly.
He nods like that’s the only answer. “Yeah, because I thought if I went on dates, I’d forget about her like that. It turns out, it makes me crazier about her.”
Something loosens low in my chest. He is not asking me questions. He is telling me who she is to him, one small scene at a time. The room feels warmer for it.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “I know she will say she is fine, but she is worried about those permits. She pretends she isn’t, but when she is thinking too hard, she taps her thumb against her bottom lip. She did it twice today.” He looks up. “Do you think I should go with her to City Hall? Or would that feel like I am crowding her?”
“Go if she asks,” I say. “Offer if she doesn’t. Let her choose. Bring coffee with the splash of cream and a cinnamon bun she never admits she wants.”
He nods, stores it away. The heater ticks on. He finally reaches for the bread and tears it in half, then passes me a piece.
He keeps going like he can’t help it. “She makes everything feel like it matters.”
My mouth curves before I can stop it. I tap my finger against the rim of my glass. “Wow,” I say, and let it land, light but true. “You really like my sister.”
He goes still, then his mouth tips in the smallest smile. He looks down at his bowl and pretends to chase a potato. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, as if the word is a secret he has been carrying around for a long time. “I do.”
“Aww. Well, for the record, I’m rooting for you two to get together.”
“Don’t tell Remy.” He groans. "I'll never hear the end of it."
I smile. “I won’t. And you don’t have to worry about that. Remy doesn’t even want to talk to me.”
Finn tilts his head, genuinely confused. “That’s funny. He seems very different when you’re around.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, “He’s probably not going to say it, but you’re practically his favorite person right now, helping out like this. You’re a miracle worker.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. He seems more annoyed with my being here than anything.”
He looks at me and says, “You’ve done so much around here. I know he’s grateful that you’re here. He’s just a grumpy asshole sometimes," he says, then laughs and adds, “Okay, most of the time.”
The front door opens, and the cold rushes in with Remy. He shakes snow from his shoulders, hangs his coat, and steps into the kitchen. He sees me sitting here holding my mug and Finn eating, and glares at him for a second.
The second he sees the slow cooker, his brows lift. “That smells good.”
“It is,” I say, looking anywhere but at him. Because, fine—if he wants to ice me out, I can, as well. Two can play this game. That’s what I should be doing anyway, keeping everything professional and distant. I can’t afford to lose this job, too.
He cuts a piece of bread from the loaf and slathers it in butter, then takes a bite like he hasn’t eaten in days. His eyes close, and he lets out an inaudible sound, half sigh, half groan that makes my stomach do an odd little flip. I don’t need to add to the fantasies.
Damn it, Remy.
“Good?” I ask, taking a sip from my mug.
He nods once, still chewing. “Really good. Thanks.”
Finn smirks at me as he takes a bite. I ignore him.
“Must be nice having someone make these homemadedinners and make your house look like a winter wonderland even if you don't even like Christmas,” Finn teases.
Remy ignores us and takes a bite of his pot roast, and his eyes close in euphoria.
After a few minutes, I ask, “Why don’t you like Christmas? How can you own a Christmas tree farm and not like Christmas?”
I am genuinely confused.
Remy looks up, frowning. “I like Christmas.”
