Page 6 of Her Christmas Fix
I study her face, looking for signs that this is some kind of scorned-starlet whim that she’ll abandon the moment things get difficult.
“We used to walk on the beach every morning when I visited her as a kid.” She’s looking down at her hands, clasped tightly around the water glass, as she speaks. “That house was my grandmother’s dream, but she believed places like that weren’t for people like us.”
“You bought it to prove her wrong.”
“I bought it to honor her memory.” Her gaze lifts to mine, and the pain in those forest-hued eyes hits me like a sucker punch. “But I never even saw the inside until tonight.” There’s no humor in her breath of soft laughter. “Some tribute, right? I let my lying, cheating ex turn her dream into a disaster zone.”
Shit. This complicated situation just got more tangled because I know the feeling of letting people down far too well.
“Monika—”
“I know how it sounds. A pampered celebrity who wants to throw money at her problems. But it’s not about the money.” She takes a sip of water, then sets the tumbler on the coffee table. “It’s about doing the right thing for you, the house, and my grandma. And maybe I get to feel a little vindicated, along with having a mantel to hang my Christmas stocking on. Is it so wrong if everybody wins?”
Every rational part of my brain is shouting that getting involved with her, even temporarily, is a mistake. Monika Graham and her sad eyes are a puzzle I can’t hope to solve, and exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need.
But the thought of triple pay hits me right where it hurts. That money would help me fix a lot of things that went south in my life after her project turned to shit.
“There’s no way to finish the whole house by Christmas,” I tell her. “Not even with all of Santa’s elves pitching in.”
She frowns, and I get the feeling she doesn’t hear the word no very often. “I’m willing to pay?—”
“I can get the main floor livable.” I know it’s rude to interrupt, but I’m tired and too affected by her vulnerability to negotiate any longer. “It’s a busy time, and I’m not pulling guys off other job sites. But you’ll be in by Christmas.”
“I’ll help,” she offers immediately. “With the work. Whatever needs to be done.” She uncrosses her legs and sits forward on the sofa, hope and excitement replacing the pain in her gaze.
Then she smiles and…well, I’m a goner. It’s part of what made Monika Graham America’s sweetheart and holds enough wattage to power a small city. Sure, I’ve seen that smile blown up thirty feet tall on movie screens.
But this close, it feels like watching the sun break through the Oregon clouds after a week of gray skies. Her smile is impossible to look away from. I clear my throat, then gulp down the rest of my water while I try not to simper and moon like a lovestruck fanboy. “You have experience with construction?”
That million-dollar smile turns a little shy at the edges, which is somehow even more appealing. Ah, hell, I’m in big trouble here.
“I was in a movie a few years ago where my character inherited her dad’s construction company,” she says proudly. “I shadowed a master carpenter for a month before filming started so that I knew my way around the tools of the trade.”
She clearly takes my silence for judgment because her smile falters, and the air of excitement surrounding her a moment ago visibly deflates. The truth is, it feels like I swallowed my damntongue, and the only words I can think to say are the kind that gush over how fucking beautiful she is. For the record, I don’t gush.
“I’m sure you can find some way for me to be useful,” she offers.
Oh, yeah. I can think of a lot of ways, most of them involving the two of us naked in my bed. Just what a woman wants to hear when it’s nearly midnight and she’s alone in a stranger’s remote-ish cabin.
“Sure.” I stand up and grab her empty glass from the coffee table. “We can figure out the details in the morning. You look tired.”
How to wipe a smile off a starlet’s face in three words? Insult her looks. Nicely done, Meyer.
An awkward silence settles over us, and I realize we’re about to navigate the strangest part of this whole odd night—sleeping arrangements. “You can take my bedroom. I’ll crash out here on the couch.”
“No way.” She smooths a hand over one of the cushions, the shimmery peach of her manicure a direct contrast to the slate-gray fabric. “You’re doing me a favor by letting me stay. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
Once again, my brain short-circuits as I think about what would happen if I invited her in with me. She’s probably kick me in the nuts, and I’d respect her for it.
“The couch isn’t exactly built for someone like you.”
“Like me how?” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you worried I’m going to drool?”
“No, I just meant…” I fumble for words as heat creeps up my neck. Does she realize the effect she’s having, or is this just par for the course? I brushed it off when she mentioned eliciting a reaction in people, but now I get it. She’s like a unicorn or some other magical creature in human form. “You’re probably usedto king beds and million-thread-count sheets, not a couch that’s seen better days.”
A hint of that smile returns. “I can manage on a couch, Griffin. I’m tougher than I look.”
Monika Graham has surprised me more than once tonight, so I believe her. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
