Page 3 of Christmas By Lamplight
“Because it’s—it’s too much to ask.”
“You didn’t ask. I offered—because I can, and you need it fixed.” He looked at her with those expressive eyes, and there was gratitude in his expression, maybe, for not making this harder than it had to be. Or maybe he just needed a normal task to do, useful work that had nothing to do with the world’s expectations.
Carrie wanted to argue, if not out of pride, then to maintain some shred of professional distance. But the way he was looking at her, like this mattered to him somehow, made her pride and professionalism dissolve.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Tom. Thank you.”
His shoulders dropped another fraction. “I’ll grab my tools.”
“You have tools?” The question came out before she could stop it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah. Woodworking’s kind of a hobby. It’s what I do between jobs to decompress.”
“You decompress by building things?”
“It’s better than tearing them down.” He said it lightly, but there seemed to be meaning behind the words.
He left, footsteps fading up the back stairs to the second-floor apartment. Shannon grabbed Carrie’s arm hard enough to leave a handprint.
“That’s Tanner Blake,” she hissed.
“I know.”
“The Tanner Blake. In our shop. Offering to fix our shelf.”
“I know.”
“And you just agreed to call him Tom!”
“He’s hiding from something. I’m not going to make it worse.” Carrie pulled her arm free and started straightening books. “The last thing he needs is my making a big deal about who he is.”
“You basically told him you’re in love with his voice.”
Carrie’s jaw dropped in protest. “I did not!”
“‘Nice to meet you?’”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s what polite people say.”
Shannon raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t the words. It was your face.”
“My face was being polite.”
“Your face was doing things—things that said I love you, and let’s name our children. Please don’t name them Pip and Estella.” Shannon studied her. “Do you even know why he’s hiding?”
“Does it matter? He asked for privacy. I’m giving it to him.”
Tanner returned with a toolbox that looked like it had seen actual use—worn handle, scratched metal, and battle scars earned in the field, not just purchased for a manly appearance. He set it down and got to work with focused intensity.
Carrie tried not to watch him work, but she failed miserably.
He moved with precision, testing the shelf’s stability, examining the brackets, making minor adjustments that suggested he actually knew what he was doing. His hands were competent in a way that made her envy the shelving.
“Oliver!” A grandmother’s voice called from the children’s section. “Stop smelling the books and choose one.”
“But they all smell different!” A small boy with wide eyes appeared around the corner, dragging his patient grandmother behind him.
Carrie blinked. The boy was holding a book she recognized. “Is that from the window display?”
