Page 31 of Mad About Yule

“Bit of both,” he answers. “You’re a Van Halen fan?”

“A little.”

I’d become a fan after one of his debate speeches about why Eddie Van Halen was the best electric guitarist of the twenty-first century. Curious, I’d started listening through their discography that same night. I might have thanked him for the music recommendation if I hadn’t been completely sure he would have lorded his triumph over me for being so convincing.

He starts framing out the next house while I slap a quick coat of primer on the first building. It doesn’t need to be pretty or detailed, but it still takes forever to work the brush into all the little nooks and crannies. All this time, I’ve been thinking the construction would take the longest, but it’s pretty clear now that the painting—and my limited availability to do it—makes me the weakest link on the Winter Wonderland production chain.

We listen through every major hit of the 1970s before I finish priming the house. Griffin comes over to stand beside me, and I get the impression he’s inspecting my work. Painting primer on plywood isn’t fancy, but I still hope he doesn’t find flaws. He’s the one with construction experience—I just like to paint.

I kneel down to reach the last few inches along the floor when my stomach growls out an aching cry of hunger. Not even Aerosmith can drown out a sound like that.

“Was that your stomach?” Griffin sounds both alarmed and impressed.

I dare a quick glance over my shoulder. “I might have forgotten to have breakfast.”

He pulls his eyebrows together. “It’s past lunch.”

“It’s no big deal.” I drag the paintbrush along bare spots on the plywood. I’d planned to eat bites of something once I take over The Daisy from Abby in the afternoon. If I look extra pathetic, Wren will bring me a hand pie.

“It sounds like it’s a big deal to your stomach.”

I shrug. “I just forget sometimes.”

“What, forget to eat?”

“Sure, don’t you?” I turn in time to catch his disgusted expression. Skipping breakfast is apparently not one of Griffin’s bad habits.

“No. How can you forget to eat? Do you forget to breathe, too?”

I force a laugh. “I’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“Right. Take a break. Let’s go to Delish and grab a bite.”

“I need to finish this.”

He holds a hand out to me to help me up. “It will still be here when you get back.”

“But if I finish now, it can dry while we eat, and I can paint on the colors after lunch.”

He slants his mouth, but I can tell he’s got no argument for that even before he gestures for me to continue. “Prime away.”

I don’t have much left to do, and in a few more minutes, I’ve fully primed the little building. I slip the paintbrush into a freezer bag, close up the bucket of primer, and pull off the plastic gloves I wore while I worked.

“Come on.” Griffin waggles his hand in front of me. “Let’s get you some food.”

I put my hand in his, and he pulls me to my feet. But when I stand, his strong, warm hand doesn’t let mine go. He holds on, his fingers tightening a touch on my skin, and he raises his other hand to the side of my face. My thoughts crash together into a tangle.

He touches my hair, and I freeze, unsure if I want to get the heck out of there, or lean right in and see what happens.

He draws two fingers along a strand of hair, that small, slow touch rippling through me as soft as a caress. My lips part, and his eyes fall to them like a weight.

I hold my breath.

“You’ve got paint in your hair.” Griffin lets go of me and looks away. “Let’s have lunch.”

My soaring stomach comes in for a crash landing, going up in a tiny whoosh of flames.

ELEVEN

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