Page 6 of Mad About Yule

I go over to the workbench and pull out a sheaf of papers. He takes the stack and flips through them, stopping now and then to examine a drawing or note. I hold my breath for about fifteen seconds—long enough to realize my hopes for a smile or an appreciative nod over my designs aren’t going to materialize—and I huff it out again.

Silas had just accepted my plans for the whimsical buildings, he hadn’t critiqued them. Of course, he doesn’t have years of experience building actual houses behind him—he just happens to have a garage full of tools.

He doesn’t cut the same figure that Griffin does, either. Over six feet tall, with an athletic build and a stern expression, Griffin probably doesn’t mess around with things like paints or heartwarming Christmas movies. Combine that with our sketchy history together, and I feel even more awkward than I ordinarily would.

And ordinarily, I can be pretty dang awkward.

“These aren’t blueprints.”

“Sure they are.” I point out some of the more detailed pages. “They’ve got all the dimensions here.”

“That doesn’t make them blueprints.” He spreads the pages out on the workbench. “These are sketches and estimates. They’re guesswork, that’s all. I’m going to have to figure out how to make them.”

First, I don’t appreciate his accusatory tone, as if I intentionally tricked him. Second, I don’t appreciate him looking directly at me. With all the arrogance in his gaze, his eyeballs must weigh a hundred pounds each.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

He shakes his head and shuffles through the papers again. “Five houses, each with different decorations, none of them the same size or shape. You’re really going all out.”

Between his deep voice and obvious lack of interest in the project, I can’t tell if he’s complimenting me or mocking me. Always a tough call, in my experience. Normally, I assume positive intent, but that doesn’t come easily with Griffin. Even the way he drinks his coffee feels like a judgment call.

I’m so much better than you, with my plain black coffee and smoldering good looks.

“That’s the point. We’re going to create a little bit of Christmas magic right here on Maple Street.”

He lifts one eyebrow like a die-hard skeptic.

“Come on, don’t you remember the way the festival used to be? All the events, the lights, the music? The way we would run through town square to see Santa?”

He goes on staring at me, unmoved. I feel like a cheerleader accidentally doing her routine in front of the opposing team’s fans, and my Christmasrah-rahfizzles out.

“That’s what you’re trying to capture with this?” He tosses a hand at the pile of boards.

“Well, yeah. We’re bringing back some of the old stuff, like the decorations and the choir, but hopefully, we can make it even better than it used to be.”

“We’re talking about sheets of plywood.”

This man has no vision at all.

“Plywood that you’re very helpfully going to turn into my Winter Wonderland. Aside from the tree, it’s going to be the centerpiece of the whole display. It will be the highlight of the Christmas season.”

No pressure or anything.

“How many people are you thinking are going to come to this?”

He might as well have asked me “How many people do you think live on the moon?” I take a step back, giving myself space. Talking to him is like trying to impress a manager who’s hell-bent on firing me, and I need a second to shore up my morale.

“We should see several thousand people.”

He makes a sound that might be a snort. “That’s not going to happen.”

A tsunami of irritation washes over me, along with a renewed extreme dislike for hazel-green eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I saw the Christmas festival last year. How many came to that? A thousand people, tops? You can’t just throw some plywood buildings together and expect that five times as many people will show up to this thing.”

His cynicism was one of his most prominent traits in high school. Clearly, Griffin hasn’t stumbled on a latent optimistic streak.

“How many Christmas festivals have you put together?” I ask.

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