Page 23 of Mad About Yule

“I don’t know, I feel a little amnesia coming on.”

She is not amused. “I’m freaking out about you, and you’re joking around?”

“Laughter is the best medicine, Hope.”

She looks at least tempted to smile. I’ll take it. Much better than having her stress about me.

“You’re the worst.”

I lay a hand over my chest. “You’d say that to an injured man? Think of my pupils.”

“I’m starting to think I’d rather work with the guy who strained his back.” She goes to the door and turns around again. “If I come back and you’re passed out, I’m dragging you to the medical center.”

“Fair deal.”

I press the tissue against my eyebrow again as soon as she leaves, wincing at the fresh stab of pain. This is some project Mom got me into. Only my second day on the job, and I already have a workplace injury.

Merry Christmas to me.

EIGHT

HOPE

I’m the boss,Griffin. I can do this, Griffin. I’m totally not going to bash you over the head, Griffin.

I run the two blocks to the little market, berating myself the whole way for braining my only hope of finishing the Winter Wonderland on time. If word gets out I’ve injuredtwofestival volunteers, I’ll probably make front page news.

Lumber maniac strikes again.

Griffin’s injury doesn’t look all that bad, but my stomach crawls knowing I’m the one who gave it to him. He’d made it clear he doesn’t want me hanging around, and now I’ve gone and given him a good reason. I’d hoped to conceal my ineptitude in the warehouse, but instead, I spelled it out in the livid bruise on his forehead.

I can’t get his dazed look out of my mind. His hazel-green eyes had gazed into mine until I felt like I’d been hit in the head, too. That’s the only explanation for the wooziness that had come over me when I’d stared into his face like that. My heart had raced and my thoughts had spun into an incoherent cloud as I ran my fingers over his jaw and forehead. Diagnosis: concussion by association.

It wasnotbecause of attraction. He’s kind of being a cocky jerk about the wholebossthing, and I haven’t missed his total disdain for my project. If he showed more non-injured moments of vulnerability, maybe…but it probably wouldn’t be smart to count on that.

I pay for a bottle of water and sprint back down the alley and into the warehouse, only to find Griffin on his feet again. A good thing, but a touch anticlimactic. He’s dabbing at his eyebrow with the wadded-up tissue, but tiny beads of blood stand out against his forehead when he pulls it away. My stomach curdles all over again at the darkening bruise spreading from his eyebrow to his hairline.

Welcome to the project, Griffin! Here’s some brain damage.

“You shouldn’t be standing up.” I pass him the water bottle, but he just exhales a laugh while I fish the small bottle of ibuprofen from my purse. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine. Just a little bump on the head.” He swallows a couple of pills and presses the cold bottle against his forehead.

“They didn’t have any ice packs.”

“I think I’m going to make it.”

“You could be seriously injured.”

“Is that an assessment or a warning?” His eyes stay on me like I might take another swing at him. I’d wanted to let him know I’m in charge in here, but not that way.

“Griffin, I’m so sorry.” I’ll probably keep apologizing until the bruise totally heals. So, for days and days. “It was a complete accident.”

He tries to raise his eyebrows but flinches at the small movement. “You sure about that, boss?”

We’ve had our run-ins, sure, but I can’t believe he’d truly think that of me. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

His expression softens, and a tiny bit of that dazed look comes back into his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I know you weren’t. Anyway, I’ve seen worse on job sites. Crushed hands, broken toes, all kinds of cuts. Saw a guy shoot a nail into his own thigh to prove it wouldn’t hurt. Spoiler alert: it did.”

---