Page 23 of Tinsel & Timber
Preparing for him.
I keep telling myself it’s for me, for the fresh start. But even I don’t buy that. Every sweep of the cloth, every fluff of a pillow, I was imagining him there. With his box of condoms and hard body that smelled like pine and citrus.
He promisedfirst thing.
I’ve been awake and waiting since before sunrise.
My beloved coffee pot gurgles on the freshly sanitized countertop, filling the kitchen with the familiar scent of caramel vanilla dark roast. Outside, streaks of orange and yellow begin breaking through the clouds.
My heart does an odd skip when I hear a truck engine rumble up the drive.
I glance out the window, unable to fight the smile on my face when I see him.
Graham steps out of his truck, tall and broad-shouldered, his Carhart coat unzipped over his flannel. His breath fogs in the air as he rounds the hood, and for a ridiculous second, I wish I had a mirror near the door and could check my reflection like a teenager waiting for her date.
He carries a messenger bag over one shoulder and a stack of papers in his hands.
By the time he knocks, my pulse is embarrassingly uneven.
I open the door. “Hi.”
His gaze drags over me—slow, deliberate. “I thought I heard rumors about a moving truck here last night.”
“Small towns,” I say. “Fast gossip.”
“So… you’re planning to live here during renovations?”
“I might,” I say, stepping back so he can come in. “You here to enforce some obscure historical ordinance against sleeping in ancestral homes?”
Graham shuts the door behind him. “I think you and I both know that’s not why I’m here so early.”
My pulse skips. “Coffee’s on. It’s not peppermint mocha but I think it’ll do,” I manage, because that’s all I can think to say.
He doesn’t move toward the kitchen right away. His eyes take a slow pass over the half unpacked boxes and the new rug rolled out in the living room. Then his gaze finds me again.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“I wanted to make at least one of the rooms livable before…” my voice trails off.
He nods, seeming to understand my unspoken words.
When he finally follows me into the kitchen, the morning light hits him just right—through the old windows, across the worn pine floor—and for a moment, I forget what I was doing.
He sets his leather messenger bag on the table and puts the stack of papers beside it.
“I brought a few…things.” Graham glances up, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his mouth.
The air between us goes thick.
I hand him a mug of coffee, fingers brushing his. His grip lingers a second longer than necessary, and it feels deliberate. My pulse is hammering.
He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Caramel,” he hums his approval.
There’s no mistaking the heat simmering between us, and it has nothing to do with the coffee.
“You look like a whole lot like trouble this morning, Mara.”
“You’re one to talk.”
