Page 36 of Tinsel & Timber
No impromptu inspections of my work.
No lectures about railings or historically accurate paint colors.
Just silence.
And every time I hear a noise out front, I still stupidly hope it’s him.
The ornaments on the tree, the twinkling lights, and the smell of fresh pine all feel like breadcrumbs leading a trail straight back to the man who can’t seem to decide whether to show up or shut me out.
I set the hammer on the workbench a little harder than necessary. “Get it together, Mara.”
But I don’t want to get it together.
I want him to walk through that door.
I want him to be as undone by what happened as I am.
I want him.
And apparently, that’s a problem—because Graham Whitlock has made it his full-time job to disappear.
So I stop pretending I’m focused on the house and do what I should have done hours ago. I grab my coat and march out the doorbefore my brain can talk me out of it.
By the time I reach his office inside City Hall, my chest is tight with anticipation.
Graham looks up from a stack of papers, flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair just messy enough to make me want to run my fingers through it. His gaze flicks over me, and I see it—a mixture of surprise, caution… and something darker that sets my pulse racing.
“Mara,” he says slowly. “Didn’t expect?—”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, stepping inside, trying to anchor myself in confidence. “I figured you didn’t. Since you apparently made it your personal mission to vanish after buying me a damn Christmas tree and tying me up in lights..”
His jaw tightens, eyes darting toward the back office as if he’s considering a fast escape. “I told you I don’t do casual.”
“And yet you were the one who started it,” I shoot back, taking a half-step closer. “The kisses. The blindfold. The handcuffs. The lights. The Christmas tree. I thought you were letting me in. I opened myself up to you. Showed you the most vulnerable pieces of me. You can’t walk out on me like that and just expect me to forget it all.”
“Mara—”
“No,” I say, voice softening but firm. “You don’t get to ‘Mara’ me. You said you’re not interested in casual, butthen you run like you’re afraid of wanting more. So what is it? Are you in, or are you out? Don’t treat me like a piece of trash that you can just throw away.”
The silence stretches between us.
Finally, something inside him snaps. He stands and circles his desk before pulling me into his arms.
“I’m sorry. You want me to make it up to you?”
My breath catches. “I just want you. All of you.”
He leans in even closer. The heat radiating from his body is almost unbearable. Our foreheads touch, and I can feel the pulse of his breath against mine, the tension coiled tight in his chest.
Then his lips are on mine, and it’s hard, angry almost, a collision of frustration and desire. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the restraint in every deliberate movement—the fight he’s losing against himself.
I respond without thinking, tilting my head, parting my lips, letting him claim just enough without giving him everything. There’s a sharp, delicious ache in my chest, a hunger that demands more, and I realize I’m not going to stop him.
Finally, he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem.
“If you run, or shove me out that door…” I warn softly.
“I won’t. Never again,” he promises me. “I didn’t leave you, Mara. I swear.”
