Page 11 of Mad About Yule

That brings a surge of relief. A smaller wave of disappointment follows right after, but I need to focus on the relief.

“I wanted to leave you this.” She holds her palm out to me, revealing a silver key. I stare at it but don’t take it.

“It’s for the lock on the warehouse door.” She flashes another smile. She probably honed those smiles in her run as Homecoming Queen. They’re a little too perfect, a little too tight at the edges to be totally sincere. Kind of the way I think of her as a whole. “So you can work when it’s convenient for you.”

As though any part of this arrangement is convenient for me. I don’t argue, though, and take the key. The stupid thought it’s the first time a woman has ever given me a key to anything runs through my brain, and I have the urge to shoot myself in the hand with a nail gun.

“I don’t expect you to work around the clock,” she goes on. “Give yourself breaks, take the weekends off.”

“I thought you wanted me to get this done as fast as possible.”

“Well…” She looks past me to the solitary wall on the floor and back. “I wouldn’t want to aim too high for you.”

I laugh at her attempt to roast me. “You’d be surprised what I can do when I’m properly motivated.”

A flush of pink spreads over her cheeks, and my stomach tightens in response. I’m not flirting with the engaged woman. Just stating fact. Probably shouldn’t have dropped my voice like we’re telling secrets, though.

She flashes that tight smile again. “We should exchange numbers. In case anything comes up.”

Exchanging numbers with Hope shoots a stupid thrill through me, but I squash that out. My interest in her is instinct only, and wildly inappropriate.

We trade numbers, and she starts to leave but turns around again at the door.

“Thanks for agreeing to do this. I know your mom’s behind it, but I really was up a creek. I appreciate it.”

No Homecoming Queen smile peeks out now. I catch a glimpse of the real Hope—worried, a little bit out of her depth, and startlingly vulnerable. My heart kicks in my rib cage. I’m not sure I deserve her thanks, considering the doubts I have about the project, but I can’t refuse her, either.

“I’m happy to help.”

She gives a stout nod in return and disappears out the door.

Making these buildings for her will be easy. Watching Hope’s face crumble when her dreams crash and burn in three weeks? That will be the real problem.

FOUR

HOPE

I arrangegemstone necklaces on a rustic wooden display, turning them to catch the light, and try not to let the worries worming around in my stomach develop into big ugly worry moths.

Did I order enough stock to get through the major shopping days after Thanksgiving? If I ordered too much, how long will it take to sell the extras and recoup the investment? What if everyone is so busy online shopping, we don’t get any sales boost at all?

And such and such. Ordinarily, I like to see the glass as half-full, and I believe in The Painted Daisy. But that isn’t quite enough to keep the Business Failure Boogeyman away permanently.

My phone rings, and I pop it out of my pocket. Lila. Surprising, considering my sister is usually too busy Girl Bossing to call in the middle of the day.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Just checking in. Is this a good time to talk?”

“It’s fine. The store’s not busy right now.”

“That’s not a good sign, is it?”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at her concern. “Are you coming down for Thanksgiving, or are you going to stately Brandt Manor this time around?”

Last year, she’d sent pictures of her fiancé’s family home. Pretty sureourfamily home has fewer square feet than their pool house. I’ve never bothered to look up what his parents do for work, but I’m betting her fiancé’s wealth isn’t solely from his successful tech start-up.

“Staying here this year. How are things in Christmas central?”

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