Page 4 of Tinsel & Timber
“She said that?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No.” I cross my arms. “But it was in her eyes.”
He snorts. “Hereyes. Sure. Go ahead, tell me what her eyes said.”
“They said, ‘I’m going to ruin this house, Graham, and you will die a slow and painful death while watching my crimes.’”
Rhett laughs so loudly a man in the lumber aisle glances over.
“You know what you sound like?” Rhett asks once he catches his breath.
“A concerned citizen,” I say.
“An old man,” he corrects. “Like… seventy. At least.”
I glare at him, which only makes him grin harder.
“You’rethirty-five, Graham. Thirty-five-year-olds should not be shook to their core by a woman looking at a bookshelf.”
“She’s not just a woman,” I say defensively. “She’s a stranger from out of town, and she’s renovating one of the most historically significant homes in Mistletoe Bay.”
“And you’re the town historian,” he says, nodding. “Yes, we all know your job description. But buddy—maybe ease up on the dramatic doom-and-gloom. It’s a house. Let the woman breathe.”
“She doesn’t understand the weight of it,” I say, and something in my chest squeezes tight. “The lineage. The history. That houseisMistletoe Bay.”
Rhett leans an elbow on the counter. “And the Kensington family that built it. She’s one of them. So maybe—just maybe—she gives a damn.”
I try not to let that land, but it does. Irritatingly so.
“She doesn’t have a plan,” I argue weakly. “She didn’t consult anyone.”
“You didn’t give her time,” Rhett fires back. “She’d been in the house for what, five minutes? That’s barely enough time to breathe in the dust.”
I deflate, shoving my hands deeply into my coat pockets. I hate when Rhett has a point.
“I’m just… look, I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Which is noble,” Rhett says. “But the whole town heard about how you barged in there like the Preservation Police. You’re lucky she didn’t kick you down the porch stairs.”
I wince. “I did not barge.”
“Okay fine, youmaterialized,” he corrects. “Like an angry Christmas angel sent to punish people for wanting to renovate their kitchens.”
I rub my face and sigh. “I just—fine. Maybe I was a little reactive.”
“A little?” he echoes.
I ignore the judgment.
“It’s just… she’s meant to walk me through her plans today. And I don’t know.” I exhale sharply. “The house has been untouched for decades. It needs care, but not erasure.”
Rhett studies me for a long, suspicious moment.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you sure this is only about the house?” he asks, head tilting.
“Yes,” I say immediately, a little too immediately.
