Page 14 of Tinsel & Timber
“Right,” he mutters. “Just… distracted.”
A laugh slips out of me, soft and entirely involuntary. “I wonder why.”
He goes pink at the tips of his ears.
The urge to kiss him like I did under the mistletoe pulses through me.
But I step back and give him mercy. “Come on. Let’s take a look upstairs.”
He follows me up the creaky staircase, careful, quiet, still radiating that unsettled energy that hums through my chest like static.
The attic is cold when we push open the door—a sharp December chill that wraps around us. Dust dances in the slanted light, swirling through the beams like the house is exhaling.
“This is incredible,” he murmurs, awe softening every edge of him.
I wish I could see him like this more often. The gentler version. The one who gets lost in the details, not the rules.
“These rafters,” he continues, stepping forward, “are hand-hewn. Original construction. Look at the axe marks. No modern machinery here.”
He touches one, fingertips grazing the wood with a reverence that makes my heart ache.
“My grandfather told me stories,” I say quietly. “How he’d climb up here as a kid. Said it smelled like cedar and old paper. Said he could hear the bay better up high.”
Graham’s voice softens even further. “You remembered all of that?”
“I remember everything he ever told me,” I whisper.
Silence stretches between us—thick with something tender.
I pull out the rolled drawings I tucked under my armbefore we left the kitchen. “I want to finish the space. Make it livable. Maybe turn part of it into a studio. Replace the insulation with something that actually works. Fix the draft by the dormer window.”
As I talk, he studies the drawings, his expression serious and his attention focused once more.
“You want to open up this corner?” he asks.
“Yes. Just a little. The current layout wastes the natural light.”
He nods. “I agree.”
I blink. “You… do?”
Graham smirks. “Mara, I’m not opposed to change. Just reckless, historically catastrophic change.”
“And how exactly would one know what counts as historically catastrophic change?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “That’s why people join the Preservation Society. To learn.”
“Already trying to recruit me. If I didn’t know better, Graham, I’d think you were looking for an excuse to spend more time with me.”
“That depends. I’m still keeping an eye out for any stray mistletoe hanging around. Wouldn’t want a repeat…” his voice trails off.
God help me, I laugh.
But before I can say anything in response, the doorbell rings downstairs. I didn’t even realize it still worked.
“Expecting someone?” he asks.
“No.” I head back toward the stairs. “Unless Santa’s running beta deliveries.”
