Page 35 of Mad About Yule

Her paintings might be ready, but she isn’t. This is curious. She’s never seemed to have a lack of confidence, but the topic clearly bothers her.

“What are your paintings like?”

“I do a lot of florals. Pets. Still lifes. Small moments in time captured in bright color. I don’t think they would really be your thing.”

“Why not?” She’s probably right, but I don’t like that she automatically assumes I won’t appreciate what she paints. I have an urge to see her artwork, and that isn’t a familiar feeling for me.

“You don’t strike me as a floral guy. You’d have paintings of things like tractors and motorcycles.” Her small smile seems designed to fire me up in more ways than one.

“You figured me out. It’s all hot rods and tractors at my place. Only the manliest artwork for me.”

“You’d have a framed license plate that saysThe Boss.”

I lay my arms out on the back of the bench. “Well, I am the boss. I’m glad you’ve seen the light.”

“I refuse to do any such thing.”

Jodi brings our food out with a wink, and we start eating. Yep. Best burgers I’ve ever had.

“What did you do when you were in Portland?” she asks after a few minutes.

“I did custom carpentry for residential builders. Moldings and trim, mantelpieces, fancy staircase banisters, things like that.”

It’d taken me years to build my reputation, and I’d given it up. A small wave of regret washes through me, but I will it to drain away. I made my choices, and I intend to stick with them.

“That sounds almost creative.”

I like her teasing more than I should. Let’s be real—I like everything about her more than I should.

“From a certain point of view.” The work is partially creative, but it’s also logical and mathematical. I fit those descriptions a lot better than the creative type she’s thinking of. I’m a craftsman, not an artist.

She dips three long French fries into ketchup and eats the whole thing in one bite. “And here you’re…?”

She leaves me to fill in that blank, but I don’t have much to supply. Technically, I have an executive title, but most of the time, I act as the office manager and fill-in labor crew. I’m the guy who stepped in when his family needed him, but I don’t know how to explain just what I do for them.

So I resort to my default.

“I’m the boss.”

She purses her lips at that. “Of course you are. How is it working for your brother?”

“With. I workwithmy brother.”

I don’t really want to get into just how I feel about that experience. I need to be here long term, I know that deep in my bones. But how is the actual day to day? How is it falling into line, deferring to Caleb’s judgment, and biting my tongue on every other issue?

“It’s complicated.”

“I can imagine. I wouldn’t want to work for my sister.” She shudders.

“With,” I say under my breath. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to say I workformy brother.

“Do you get along?”

“On most things.” A bit of an exaggeration, but she doesn’t need the unvarnished truth.

“That makes sense. You’re a really cooperative guy.”

Her meaningful eye contact serves up a heaping spoonful of sass. Her mouth finally tips up, pleased as can be with her little jab.

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