Page 27 of Mad About Yule

“Depends what’s on the menu.” I join her in the kitchen, ready to earn my keep if she needs any last-minute prep, but it looks like I’ve missed out. A pot steams on the stove, and she has a plate of flatbread ready on the island counter.

“What on earth happened to you?”

She pauses on her way to the pot on the stove. The familiar scent of chicken pot pie drifts to me, but with a dash of something warmer mixed in. I know those smells, but I’ve never known themtogether.

“Did you put curry in the pot pie?” I lean over the stove to check, but she swats my hand before I can reach the lid.

“I’m trying something new.”

Culinary experimentation is one of her hobbies. Some flavors just aren’t meant to mix, but that never stops her from testing out her next concoction. Also never stops me from trying them, but she’s had a few close calls.

“What happened to your face?”

Oh, right. I almost forgot about the morning’s mishap. The pain has dulled down to a low ache I ignored most of the day.

“I had a little run-in with my boss.”

Her eyes widen. “Calebdid that to you?”

My stomach twists at the implication she thinks my older brother can take me in a fight, and the direct acknowledgement she considers him in charge over me. He is, of course—and should be. He’d come back to the family business after college to work his way up, and I only rolled in a year ago. It still chafes.

“Not that boss. The one you got me tangled up with.”

She takes me by the chin and moves my head around under the glare of the can lights. I haven’t seen a mirror yet, but her surprise when she caught sight of me says my face doesn’t look good.

“Did Hope do this to you?” She gives my cheek an extra pat and lets go. “You’d better watch yourself with her.”

“A little late for a warning.”

“Are you working too slowly for her, and this is her way of getting you to speed up?”

Some sympathetic mother she is. Her mouth twitches while she gives the curry a stir, and the smells wafting around the kitchen double in intensity. I can’t tell yet if I want a bite or if I’d rather pick up take out on my way to my apartment.

“That’s not an issue.”

I’d nearly finished the first of Hope’s houses by the time I closed up the warehouse tonight. I got the walls set up, secured the pitched plywood roof, and used a jigsaw to cut out the decorative fronting pieces for all the trim. I’m starting to see what she has in mind for it, but it’ll need a lot more work before it will enchant the little kids of Sunshine.

Did I push just a touch harder to get this done than I had yesterday? Yes. Did that have anything to do with wanting to make a little bit up to the suddenly very much un-engaged festival organizer? Also yes.

Probably a bad idea to let any interest in her take hold—especially when I know how brutal she can be with a weapon—but that didn’t stop me from putting in the overtime.

“Did you make a pass at her?”

“Funny.” Not that I would admit anything there. “She’s just a little overzealous, that’s all.”

“She’s got a lot of enthusiasm for the project,” Mom confirms. “But people are making demands of her on every side, and not everybody is as supportive as they could be.”

“Who’s not supportive?” I want to track her critics down and give them a piece of my mind. Getting riled up in her defense is probably a bad idea, too, but for the moment, I can pretend it’s all in the name of the festival.

We are a team, after all. Kind of.

Mom steps away to lean against the counter. “You know how people are. They don’t like change. It’s easier to think of her as a flighty girl with her head in the clouds than as a smart businesswoman who’s trying to improve town events for everyone’s benefit.”

Guilt squeezes my ribcage until my breath sticks in my lungs. I’ve pretty much been thinking the same thing, haven’t I? Maybe even worse, since I basically accused her of trying to turn the festival into a job opportunity like some cut-throat mercenary.

The amount of work she’s doing for no pay and possibly negligible reward still puzzles me. I can’t question her sincerity, though, not after she defended Sunshine so heartily. She truly believes in this project. That has to be worth something. Even if I can’t see it reaching her desired success, I need to get fully on board with it, too.

“And the gossip never lets up,” Mom goes on. “Whether Hope succeeds or fails, someone will be talking about it right behind her.”

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