Page 32 of Wrapped with a Beau

“Which is what?”

“A kernel of a story that could grow into actually being a book someday. But right now I’d settle for even just a smidge”—he holds his thumb and pointer a centimeter apart—“of inspiration.”

“Seek magic and you shall find it.” She gives him a radiant smile, like it’s supposed to mean something to him. A quote, perhaps? Something from a book or movie? Shit, he didn’t write that line, did he?

“Apropos,” he quips. “Wish I had some magic right now.”

“You don’t know where that’s from, do you?” Elisha’s smile fades. “It’s something Maeve always used to say.”

He almost smiles. “Funny, ‘Be good’ was how she always ended her conversations with me.”

It was always strange to hear, especially as he grew older. It made him feel childish, as though he were still that seven-year-old who had to be on his best behavior with an unfamiliar stranger. But now he thinks maybe it was her way of telling him she loved him.

Elisha’s eyes crinkle when she laughs. Her very earthy, very lovely eyes. His gut unexpectedly tightens. “Were you frequently naughty?” she asks.

He knows she’s teasing him, but he doesn’t mind. “Incorrigibly.”

“You? I can’t see it. I bet you were always on Santa’s nice list.”

Curiously, he tilts his head. “You’re so convinced I wasn’t a bad boy?”

“I think you were exceptionally, predictably good.”

“Exceptional, am I?”

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. He doesn’t hold back his smirk. She narrows her eyes. “You did hear predictable was right next to it, didn’t you?”

He supposes he is: he likes a sense of routine and doesn’t necessarily enjoy stepping outside his comfort zone. There are worse things to be, but now, perversely, he wants to prove her wrong.

“What’s ‘Seek magic and you shall find it’ from, then?” he asks, neatly setting his writing materials to the corner of the table at perfect right angles. He uses his fingertip to imperceptibly straighten his pen.

“Oh, it’s a line from Sleighbells. Maeve was just an extra, but everyone loved her so much that they wrote a couple lines just for her. This wasn’t one of them, though. She kind of just blurted it out to fill the silence when Nathan—he played the lead—forgot his line, and the director liked it so much, they didn’t do a retake. She was encouraging him to take a chance and seek magic and love and possibility with his small-town girl instead of trying to get back to a home where he never fit in.”

“Is that why she loved the movie so much? Even your mayor knew what a fan Maeve was.”

“I wouldn’t say fan, exactly. She always had dreams of being a historian, and, if she hadn’t spent so much of her life under her dad’s thumb... well, that’s what I think she was trying to do here.” She rises, clapping her hands on her thighs. The move draws his attention to her rusty-orange corduroy skirt and thigh-high black socks, and the couple of inches of skin peeking out. “Speaking of...” She flashes him a determined grin. “We’re here to get this place shipshape, right? Where do you want to start?”

“How about the living room?”

Once there, Elisha takes in the room with a surveyor’s eye. “First, you need to find all the important documents. Electricity and water bills, home and life insurance policies, any stock or bond certificates. What else, what else... Oh! Bank statements. The deed to this house. Got it?”

Ves is honestly not sure whether she has too much faith in him or she’s just chronically optimistic. He stares at all the loose paper. “You’re kidding. In this?”

“I know it looks daunting, so don’t worry if you can’t find everything. I’m sure her bank will have some things on file.”

“While I’m doing all of that, what are you going to do?” he asks suspiciously. “Kind of feels like I got the hard job.”

She flutters her fingers at him. At his blank look, she sighs. “Do you see these nails? Brand-new. I just painted them last night.” White snowflakes stand out against dark, inky blue and silver-glitter tips. He hadn’t noticed them at lunch, but he likes them better than the grim nutcracker faces and frightening chompers by a long shot.

She does another fancy hand flourish. “I’m not risking these babies with any heavy lifting. I’ll go through the rest of these books and see if you missed anything.”

“What could I possibly have missed? They’re just some old mass-market paperbacks.” He senses he’s made a grievous misstep when she stares at him like he’s sprouted antlers.

“These,” she enunciates, “are Maeve’s most beloved and extremely valuable collection of romance novels. They might not sell at Sotheby’s or whatever, but we—and by that I one hundred percent mean you—are going to show them the respect they deserve.”

He throws his hands up, flashing his palms in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise. Have at it.”

She puts her hands on her hips, looking adorably incensed, though he’d never tell her that. “Are you humoring me?”

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