Page 38 of Mad About Yule

I wrap my coat tighter around me against the icy breeze. “I was really only planning on Christmas.”

The festival had sounded like a great fit for me—I love the holiday and have good connections with other business owners because of my store. But year-round events? I don’t have ideas or the time.

“Enrique said they’re thinking about creating a permanent position. Maybe half-time at first, but I know you could make it a success.”

“You mean a job?”

Mom nods. “You could really do something amazing with your degree and make a difference for the whole town.”

She’s so dang happy, I can’t bear to burst her bubble and tell her I don’t want to take on a new marketing job, especially if it means giving up my store. And I sure won’t do it in front of Griffin, who’s watching us like he understands what Mom’s proposing even better than she does.

“I’m glad he’s that excited about the festival,” is all I can manage.

“I’ll let you two get on with what you’re doing.” She grins at us, those sparklers in her eyes making her meaning painfully obvious. “I can’t wait to hear what Hope will have to tell me about you next.”

You’d think I’d be used to her antics by now, but my stomach aches from all the awkwardness she’s heaped on me in a few short minutes. She says goodbye and carries on down the sidewalk, waving at everyone she passes like she’s best friends with the whole town. Her breeziness can be a lot, but it all comes from a place of sincerity. She really wants me to be happy. I just wish she would dial it back a little.

Griffin and I share a look. Somehow, I know he gets it. The love, the encouragement, the not-so-gentle pressure. I will hope and pray he remains oblivious about therestof her hints.

Who am I kidding? He ate up every word.

“It’s like I said about family,” he says.

“Yeah. It gets tricky.”

THIRTEEN

GRIFFIN

I am not a voyeur.I don’t spy on people. But when I show up at the warehouse first thing in the morning with a box of donuts, Hope is lip syncing all the words to “Jump” while she paints the trim on the little Wonderland building.

And I watch.

She bops along, rolling her brush over the wood, one hip jutting out every time she mouths the title. I try not to stare at her hips or the careless way she sways them around, but I’ve never seen her quite this loose and relaxed. This discovery feels monumental, and I can’t look away.

This ambitious, determined woman rocking out to Van Halen? If she breaks into an air guitar solo, I might drop down onto one knee and propose.

“I don’t remember Santa singing this one.”

She shrieks before I finish and flies to the workbench in a flash to stop her phone. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

Her face is pink from all the dancing, and probably just a little bit from getting caught.

“It’s eight.”

“Already?” She tilts her phone toward her. “Wow. I guess I lost track of time.”

I set the box of donuts on the workbench and stalk closer. “How long have you been here?”

“Six-thirty. Ish.”

“So, six.”

She waves a hand in the air, confirming without admitting anything. If she bent over backward any further for this festival, her head would touch the ground.

“Next time you want to come in for a pre-dawn painting party, call me first. I don’t like the idea of you in here alone.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get some work done.”

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