Page 13 of Tinsel & Timber
“Pastries are on the counter.” I open the box with a flourish. “Peppermint cinnamon rolls, cranberry scones, and chocolate-dipped shortbread. Emmy claimed the cinnamon rolls were ‘historian-appropriate.’”
This time he doesn’t even try to hide the smile. “Historian-appropriate?”
“Yes. Classic. Steady. Predictable. Nothing too modern, so your ancestors don’t roll in their graves.”
He huffs a laugh. “They’d appreciate baked goods more than most things the town council approves.”
“Good. Then hopefully I’m already winning over your people.”
He looks at me like he’s slightly conflicted.
Me too, buddy. Me too.
“So…” I say. “Want a tour? Before we dive into the Socratic debate over which bannisters qualify as ‘original to the period.’”
He nods. “I’d like to see the rest.”
I lead him through the first floor. The creaky pine floors. The beams that have seen at least a century and ahalf of life, seasons, change. The fireplace where I hung a single strand of fancy garland adorned with pine cones and gold ribbon.
While I list off my plans for nearly every nook and cranny of the house, Graham listens. Almost like he’s hanging onto every word. Like he’s filing away every detail for later.
But when we reach the old staircase, he stops.
“This railing,” he murmurs, running his hand along the carved post. “Your great-great-grandfather might’ve touched this every day.”
Emotion punches me unexpectedly. Right in the chest. Sharp and hot.
“I know,” I whisper. “That's why I’m being careful. I want to keep as much as I can.”
He looks at me then, and it’s not the grumpy historian stare I’ve come to expect from him. It’s something deeper, something that slides beneath my ribs and unsettles everything.
“You’re not like the other flippers,” he says.
“Well… thank you?”
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment.” His mouth twitches while he fights back a smile. “But maybe it is one, anyway.”
Something in my pulse stutters.
He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “We should go over the attic plans now.”
“Yes,” I agree, even though neither of us moves.
He finally steps back into the kitchen, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the back of one of the chairs. Then he helps himself to a scone and sighs contently with the first bite.
“So,” I say, pretending that I’m not affected by having Graham in my space like this. “Attic plans.”
“Yes. Right.” He flips a page on the old blueprints he brought with him. “The—uh—the insulation up there is likely from the 1920s upgrade.” Another flip. “And the beams should absolutely stay untouched.” Another flip. “And the?—”
He’s not even looking at the papers.
I step closer and place a hand gently over top of his. “Graham.”
His eyes snap up.
“You’re holding the plans upside down.”
He blinks, then looks down, then flips them so fast the papers almost fly across the kitchen.
