Page 2 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“Hush,” I say with a wave of my hand, not wanting to hear her speech on how I need to prioritize myself again. “Get to gluing those cotton balls on while I go over there, will you?”
“Hell, no. I’m standing here on watch with 911 on speed dial just in case he drags you inside against your will.” Her lips tip mischievously before she adds, “Though, that might not be too bad. I hear he's ridiculously hot.” I roll my eyes at her dramatics but leave without saying anything else, knowing that if I do, I’ll never get this done.
I’d been meaning to go next door and introduce myself to my new neighbor anyway. When he moved in, I tried to say hello, but he didn’t answer when I knocked, so I left my welcomebasket with fresh muffins, a few new-home essentials, and a welcome packet I put together for everything one might need to know about our little town: community events, takeout menus, a list of important numbers, and the like. The next morning, the empty basket was on my front porch along with a note that simply said,Thanks. -A.Since then, I’ve tried to catch him numerous times, but I haven’t managed to do so.
When I walk up his pathway, I catch sight of him moving in the window and give him a little wave and a friendly smile. I might be imagining it, but I think he might groan when he sees me. Ignoring that, I move up the three steps of his porch, a familiar routine because this house used to be owned by Mrs. and Mr. Demauro, whose daughter was in my grade. When I’d go to my grandmother’s house, which I now own after she left it to me, I would often go next door to see if she could play.
After I knock, I wait for a long moment. Long enough that I wonder if he actuallydidsee me. Maybe he didn’t, and he didn’t hear my knock. I’m contemplating whether I should knock again or ring the bell when the door opens, and the choice is made for me. When it does, a towering man stands in the doorway, staring down at me, unspeaking.
“Hi!” I tip my head up to my new neighbor, who is about a foot taller than I anticipated andfarmore handsome than Jeanie let on, or that I could catch in the small moments I saw him going in or out of his home. His hair is dark, longer on top than it is on the sides, with warm brown eyes and a thick layer of scruff along his cheeks. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a tight white T-shirt that stretches across a broad chest, paired with a casual pair of jeans that fit far too well. If Hallie were here, she’d probably ask him to turn around so she could see his ass.
Eventually, my gaze makes it back up to his eyes. That’s when I realize he has not returned my smile. Discomfort settles in mygut for a second before I know I can’t really blame him. There’s a stranger on his front steps, practically ogling him, and there’s a good chance he saw my best friend weirdly watching him from the window.
“I’m Wren. I live next door.” Silence hangs between us, and I give in to the urge to fill it. “The white one.” I tip my head to the side toward my home and stare at him, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as he remains quiet. Still, I’m determined to make a good impression. “I keep meaning to come over and introduce myself, but life has been so wildly busy. So… Hi! I’m Wren!” I let out a nervous giggle that makes me sound like an idiot, I’m sure, but it must do something, because finally his stone facade cracks the tiniest bit. His face stays stoic, but his eyes light as if, despite himself, he’s entertained by me.
“Adam,” he says. The word is finite, but I nod and shrug at him.
“I know. Small town, word spreads.” His jaw goes a bit tight like he isn’t fond of that, so I quickly add, “Not that there’s been much to spread about you, of course. Your name and where you moved are all I’ve been able to get around town.” A blush burns over my cheeks as my unfortunate habit of verbal vomit comes out.
Finally, I get a genuine reaction: the lift of a thick, dark eyebrow and the tiniest tip of the corner of his lips.
He’s amused. That’s a good sign, right?
I don’t think serial killers get amused by rambling women, do they?
Unfortunately, the rambling only gets worse.
“My best friend thinks you’re a serial killer,” I admit, then instantly wish I hadn’t becausewho says that to a virtual stranger?My panic fades almost as quickly, though, melting into something much more pleasant because with my words, his lips spread into a smirk.
It’s not even a full smile, just a slight tilt of his lips like my antics amuse him, but mygod,it’s a good smirk that settles warm in my belly.
“And you?” he asks.
I stare for a moment before realizing what he’s asking.
“I was leaning more toward you won the lottery and are hiding from your greedy family.” He tips his head ever so slightly, like he’s assessing me and taking me in, so slightly it must be unintentional, and I wonder if maybe I’m right, after all. When he doesn’t give me the truth, or really, anything, I fill in the silence that has grown between us once more. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by, say hi, and introduce myself formally. If you ever need anything at all, I’m your girl. It’s kind of my thing around town. You need some help, call up Wren King!” His brow furrows, but he nods, then steps back just a bit as if he’s done with the conversation and going to close the door. Quickly, I add, “Oh, also, as head of the decorating committee in town, I must ask, when do you plan to start decorating for Christmas? If you’d like, I can come over to help out. Many hands make light work, and all.”
“I don’t,” he says in that low, gravelly voice. I shrug and give him a slight, conciliatory nod.
“No worries, just figured I’d offer since you might not be comfortable asking for help since you just moved here and all.” I stare at him some more, the chill of mid-November starting to creep beneath my sweater. I probably should have thrown on a jacket, but honestly, I didn’t think I’d be standing outside this long.
He shakes his head, confusing me.
“No. What I meant was, I don’t plan on decorating. Not my thing.”
“I’m sorry?”
He shrugs as if he didn’t just say the most unbelievable thing. “It’s not my thing. Christmas, decorating. Not for me.”
“But…but you live on Bluebird Lane.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s…it’s…” I force myself to take a deep breath to calm and center myself when I hear my voice going high-pitched. You always win people over much more easily with a friendly face and a calm demeanor. “It’s tradition. This is the most decorated street in all of Holly Ridge, and that’s saying something because welovedecorating here. The town has been fully lit for almost thirty years; this street is going on sixty.” It’s a tradition started by my grandmother, and I have the honor of continuing it this year.
“Well then, it sounds like you won’t need me to take part; plenty of festivity to go around,” he says, then goes to close the door.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I put a hand out, stopping it.
“The entire street will be lit up. We have a Land of Sweets theme going this year, you know, like inThe Nutcracker? It’s going to be spectacular, but we need everyone involved to make it extra magical. The lights bring people from all over to come check it out.” His jaw goes tight with my words, but I’m too panicked to really understand it, much less heed the warning.
“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to deal with this one staying dark this year.” Any trace of amusement disappears from his face, and my gut drops.
