Page 12 of Tinsel & Timber
The front steps creak.
My pulse jumps.
He’s early.
Of course he is.
I smooth my hair, even though I know the wind probably destroyed it the second I stepped outside this morning.
Then—
A knock. Firm, like he rehearsed it so he wouldn’t accidentally knock too soft or too hard.
At least he didn’t just barge in this time. That might be progress.
I open the door.
Graham stands there, snow on his shoulders, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his deep green jacket. His hair—a reddish blonde and always a little messy—has been tousled even more by the wind, and somehow that makes him look younger.
And hotter.
Great. Wonderful. Perfect timing for my hormones to have an opinion.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, rough in that just-woke-up way that does absolutely nothing helpful for my composure.
“Morning,” I echo. “Come in. Before you freeze into a historical artifact on my porch.”
His mouth twitches. “Funny.”
“No, you just have a very low humor threshold.”
Another twitch. Maybe even the ghost of a real smile. I’ll take it.
He steps inside, eyes sweeping the entryway, assessing everything.
“You cleaned,” he says.
“I tidied.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
His eyes track the movement. Slow. Hesitant. Like he’s making sure this isn’t a trap.
“It’s peppermint mocha,” I add casually. “Apparently… your favorite?”
He freezes.
“Who told you that?”
“Cleo,” I say. Then, because I’m feeling petty: “And Emmy. And Evie. And pretty much everyone else in town who thinks your coffee preferences are common knowledge.”
He closes his eyes like that physically pains him. “Small towns should come with nondisclosure agreements.”
“Agreed,” I say brightly. “But the longer you standhere looking at me in shock, the colder your coffee is going to get.”
I hand it to him, and he hesitates before curling his fingers around the cup. He inhales once, an almost imperceptible sigh passing through him.
He likes it. He won’t say it. But he likes it.
Small victory secured.
