Page 2 of Christmas By Lamplight
Carrie lunged for it, knowing she was too far away. She could already see the avalanche of books, broken spines, bent pages, and one more thing on a repair list she couldn’t afford to address.
A hand caught the shelf.
Not caught, commanded it to stop. One hand steady as stone, while the other pressed against the small of her back to keep her from pitching off the ladder.
“Careful,” a voice said.
Carrie’s entire body went still. That voice . . . No, it couldn’t be.
She looked down into eyes the color of strong coffee, and under a beanie was a face that belonged on the cover of Woodworking Quarterly if there were such a thing. The man holding her shelf—and technically her—wore flannel draped over a thermal shirt, muscular shoulders, well-worn jeans that rode low on hips that were . . . not the point right now. The point was the shelf. And not falling. Also breathing, which she needed to do.
His expression of mild concern suggested that rescuing women from literary avalanches was just another Tuesday.
“I’ll brace this,” he said, shifting his weight to pin the shelf with his shoulder while steadying her. “Unless this is some sort of performance art piece. Falling action? I don’t judge.”
That was the voice. Low. Controlled. The kind of voice that probably never had to repeat itself. The voice that had carried her through inventory at 2 a.m., through the night she’d finally left Dennis, through every moment when the world felt too big and she felt too small.
“I—no. Thank you. I just—” She gestured with the staple gun she’d been using to fix the bookshelf and accidentally fired it, pinning his sleeve to the shelf.
Shannon made a sound like a stepped-on cat toy.
The man looked at his sleeve, then at her, and the corner of his mouth did something that wasn’t quite a smile but made her stomach leap to her throat. “I usually let a woman buy me dinner before we do hardware.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so—let me—” She turned to find Shannon, arm outstretched with a staple remover at the ready, which Carrie took and leaned closer than was professionally appropriate. The faint scent of cedar, sawdust, and fresh snow went to her head, and she thought she might faint. Her fingers fumbled with the staple, but she finally freed him.
“Tanner Blake?” The words came out in a breathless fangirl sigh, exactly what she’d promised herself she would never do.
His expression shifted, not quite to panic, but close. His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just studied her, and she saw exhaustion, the bone-deep weariness of someone who’d been pushed to his limit.
“While I’m here,” he said quietly, “I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me Tom.”
The vulnerability in those words hit her square in the chest. This wasn’t a celebrity asking for privacy—this was someone asking for refuge. His hand was still pressed against her back, steadying her, but his eyes were asking for something else entirely.
Carrie knew that look. Please. Just let me be invisible. She’d worn it herself six months ago, walking away from Dennis with nothing but a suitcase, a backpack, and the keys to a failing bookshop. It was the look of someone who’d been broken and just needed somewhere to heal.
She stepped down from the ladder, and he released her, stepping back like he expected her to demand an explanation—or worse—a selfie.
Instead, she stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Tom. I’m Carrie Watson. I run this place.”
He stared at her hand for a beat, then took it. His grip was warm, calloused, careful. The relief in his voice was almost painful. “I just moved in upstairs yesterday.”
Their hands lingered a second too long. His thumb brushed against her palm, and the touch sent heat straight up her arm.
Shannon made a strangled sound from behind the counter.
Carrie pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “Thank you. For the shelf. For not letting me fall.”
“Anytime.” He crouched to examine the baseboards, his shoulders relaxing incrementally, as though he were only now realizing he was safe.
He ran his hand along the wood and then eyed her staple gun fix with a skeptical look. “This needs to be properly repaired. Soon. You saw what just happened. That shelf’s one bump away from coming down on a customer. You don’t want a lawsuit on your hands.”
Heat crept up her neck. “Yeah, I know. It’s on the list. It’ll have to wait until I can afford to get a carpenter in here.”
“I can fix it.” He said it simply, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“I can’t let you do that. You’re—” She stopped herself before she could say famous or a celebrity or anything else in her mind that would make this more awkward. “I can’t just have you fix things for free.”
“Why not?”
