Page 30 of Grump Hard
Luke shifts to observe the back, nodding seriously. “You’ve done a great job. Keep going with that, Timmy. The rest of us will get the front fixed and ready for you to continue your work as quickly as possible. How long do we have left?”
I glance at the clock, my pulse spiking. “Fifty-two minutes?”
“I’m so sorry!” Marge whimpers again.
“Right, then we’d better get to it.” Luke takes off his coat, folding it with precision and placing it on a clean chair. Then, he pushes up his sweater and starts rolling the button-down sleeves beneath, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with fine, dark hair.
And that’s it.
One look at those highly capable, sexy as hell forearms is all the inspiration I need to get my groove back.
My shoulders, which have been somewhere up around my ears for the last hour, drop, and a steady quiet settles over me.
Luke’s here to back me up.
He’s here because he wants to be, not because our blackmail pact demands it.
The knowledge infuses me with a ridiculous, intoxicating surge of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, we still have a chance.
Ten
Luke
The disaster in front of me is testimony to how much damage can be done by one weak link.
Holly’s gingerbread town hall looks like it’s been through both an earthquake and a frosting tsunami. Half the structure has collapsed, and store-bought icing oozes down what remains of the east wall like some kind of sugary plague. Meanwhile, Timmy is gnawing his fingernails down to the quick, and the professional baker is clearly about five seconds away from bailing on the entire endeavor.
I can’t say that I blame him.
I also usually have little patience for mess. Or people who can’t follow directions. But as I roll up my sleeves, I’m not angry. Or irritated.
I’m not even “grumpy.”
I’m simply focused, determined to help Holly recover from the damage caused by this woman who couldn’t follow directions.
“All right,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the roar of a Christmas carol cranked up to eardrum-rupturing levels. “Regrouping plan: Marge, you’re off icing. You’re now in charge of confectionery distribution.”
She blinks. “What’s that?”
“Timmy will tell you what he needs when it comes to gumdrops, peppermints, etcetera,” I clarify, “and you will organize and supply it. Understood?”
Marge shrinks a little. “Oh, well, yes. All right. I’d like to help more, but…”
I’m about to say that she’s “helped” enough when Holly catches my eye with a pleading expression. Forcing patience into my tone, I add, “You’ll be a huge help. Timmy won’t be able to start on the front until we’ve finished the reassembly. He’ll have to move very quickly. You’ll be instrumental in facilitating his vision as swiftly as possible.”
“I can do that,” she says, brightening. “And Timmy and I are great at teamwork, aren’t we, honey?”
Timmy nods indulgently, his kindness in the face of his grandmother’s bumbling admirable in a boy so young.
I turn to him with an approving smile. “Sounds like a plan. Why don’t you two huddle at the end of the table and stage the candy for installation there?” I lower my voice as I add, “But wash your hands first. Just in case someone decides they want a bite of your masterpiece, we want to be sure it’s as germ-free as possible.”
The boy nods and scurries off, looking pleased by the new direction.
“Paulie,” I continue, turning to the baker who’s still glaring over at what I assume is the competition. “How fast can you get that front wall back up?”
He forces his attention my way. “With a steady supply of the good icing? Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.” His blue eyes slit toward Marge. “Assuming no one interferes when my back is turned.”
