Page 10 of Wrapped with a Beau

Thinking that he could run away before anyone came to the door, and then his parents would be sorry. Then they wouldn’t spend all their time with their lawyers, bitterly arguing about who had let the other down the most.

He had been so caught up in imagining his parents’ grief and eventual reconciliation that he scarcely noticed the door opening. Buttery light spilled through, along with the sweet scent of what he’d later learn were Aunt Maeve’s famous sugared pecans. And when Aunt Maeve smiled at him—like he was wanted, like she couldn’t be happier to have him there—he suddenly couldn’t remember why he’d been so frightened of her, after all.

He shakes himself out of the memory. He’s never liked to linger in the past too long.

“You know what is still the same, though? Piney Peaks,” Ves muses, brow furrowing. “It’s like the place is a magical village suspended in a snow globe. It’s weird.”

“I think you mean charming.” Arun’s voice is amused.

“No, I definitely mean weird. Everyone’s so friendly. Three people waved at me through the open window. The window, Arun. I had to draw the curtains. Someone mimed asking me over for coffee.”

“Sounds terrifying. Make sure you sleep with one eye open tonight. That is, if you sleep at all...”

“Somehow I get the impression you aren’t appropriately sympathetic to my plight,” Ves drawls.

“Nooooo, whatever gave you that idea?”

“You mock, but if you don’t hear from me tomorrow it’s because the neighbor girl decided to break in—again—and finish what she started.”

Arun snort-laughs. “See! Not everyone there is friendly! Maybe she’s just as surly as you!”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Ves rolls his eyes, regretting that he’s not on video so Arun can get the full effect. “I’m not surly. I’m inconvenienced.”

“Riiiiight,” says Arun, tone wry. “And how hot is she exactly?”

Ves jolts. “What? That’s not—I didn’t even notice—” He stops sputtering to say firmly, “That is irrelevant.”

“Not to the person asking the question, it’s not,” Arun mildly replies. “You only get this irritated when it’s someone you begrudgingly like despite yourself. And yes, before you ask, you are that predictable. So fess up: You like this girl?”

Ves thinks back, summoning up a memory of short chestnut curls and rich, mossy-brown eyes that turned gold at just the right angle. A pert nose, slightly reddened to match the rosiness on her sun-kissed cheeks. He hesitates before answering, parsing through his conflicting emotions. Does he admit she’s gorgeous and risk more teasing? Or gloss over it in hopes Arun will lose interest?

Finally, he settles for a noncommittal, “She’s not without her charms. But listen, I don’t have the first clue about how to deal with this house, I really don’t want to involve either of my parents, and I’m going to break out in hives from all the clutter. It’s too much.”

In the lingering silence that follows, Ves knows Arun gets exactly what he means in the way that only a best friend who has known you from childhood can.

There’s no doubt in his mind that sorting through the chaos of someone else’s left-behind life is going to be torture. There is just so much stuff everywhere: things that are not crap, things that are maybe crap, and things that are definitely crap.

And he feels guilty making a judgment call on any of it. When it comes to his own belongings, it’s so much easier to be ruthless. He was Marie Kondo–ing before the rest of the world even knew the method. It’s hard to explain, but in most other people’s houses, he feels out of control when he’s surrounded by so many unnecessary trinkets and knickknacks.

Of all the epithets Ves has accumulated over the years, sentimental is not one of them.

Unencumbered? Yup.

Minimalist? Definitely.

Inflexible? Oh, absolutely.

The Christmas House still feels like Aunt Maeve’s, not his. Not his to change, not his to decide about, and no lawyer or piece of paper can convince him otherwise. His fingers itch to cull the clutter into something manageable, but at the same time it’s so overwhelming that even the idea of getting started feels too uphill to wrap his head around.

“Have you made any headway so far?” asks Arun.

The yes is on the tip of Ves’s tongue before he takes it back. Looking around the living room, he’s disheartened to realize he’d been working all day with so little to show for it. He stares at his three tiny piles and after a quick glance at his watch, officially gives up. The many-headed hydra of mess will have to wait until he gets some dinner and a good night’s sleep.

“Why don’t you hire one of those cleaning services?” suggests Arun. “Get them to just trash everything and scour the house from top to bottom so you can sell it and be back home in a few days.”

If only. Ves sighs. “Dad specifically said not to do that. Maeve inherited the house from her father, who was apparently one of those eccentric, wealthy old dudes. Dad remembers a lot of first-edition books and valuable paintings, so I have to get those assessed. But that won’t be possible until the new year.”

Arun makes a sympathetic sound. “So I guess this wouldn’t be the best time to put on my agent hat and tell you the bad news?”

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