Page 30 of Mad About Yule

“Oh. That’s smart. I hadn’t thought about moving them.” Which I obviously should have—we can’t carry six-foot-tall buildings down the street. I’d been so occupied with the design, I hadn’t thought through the logistics.

“This way, we can truck them over in pieces. It’s all sanded, too. All it needs is for you to paint it, and it will be ready for kids to ogle it to pieces. Hopefully not literally.”

“You did a really great job.” It’s even better than what I’d designed.

“Thanks.” He clears his throat and steps closer. “Look, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I shouldn’t have repeated things I’d heard. You’re right—it was dumb and rude, and I apologize.”

For a guy who says he doesn’t know the first thing about humility, he wears it well. I like this gentler side of him, even if I’m skeptical about how long it will stick around.

“Thank you.”

He gives a firm nod. “Are we good?”

Are we good?Is he going to drop it? Usually, when people bring up last summer’s fiasco, they ask questions. They want to know the actual dirt, like how such a big mistake had happened, maybe even dig for info on the fallout. But opting to just apologize and move on? Unheard of.

My stupid stomach dips like he’s defended my honor.

“We’re good.”

“All right.” He seems relieved, and that surprises me all over again. Does he actually care about what I think of him? He hasn’t let on that he does so far. “Are you ready to paint this thing?”

“That’s my time to shine.” I might not know the first thing about carpentry, but I’m one heck of a painter. He’s already surrounded the little house with plastic drop cloths and has the bucket of primer ready to go. I only have to peel off my parka and get to work.

“Blue today,” Griffin says from somewhere behind me.

I face him, pulling on rubber gloves. “What?”

He gestures at me with the cordless drill. “Your sweater is blue today.”

I glance at the navy sweater I’d chosen. “And?”

“You wear a lot of colorful clothes.”

If he thinks this is colorful, I’d hate for him to see my apartment. Or worse, my artwork. “You wear a lot of flannel.”

He looks at the shirt he’s wearing, a blue-and-green check. Incidentally, rolled at the sleeves.

But like I’d told Wren, I’m much too busy to notice the way the muscles in his forearms shift with every subtle move he makes.

Much. Too. Busy.

“Touché.” He turns back to the Wonderland bakery as though inspecting it for code violations. “Do you mind if I play some music?”

He takes his phone from his pocket and scrolls on the screen. I wave him along, and he sets the phone down on the workbench, Queen blasting from tiny speakers.

“‘We Will Rock You.’ It sets the mood. I was expecting—”

He raises a hand. “Don’t say it.”

“Van Halen,” I finish.

“Oh.” He tilts his head at that. “I thought you were going to say country. Yeah, Van Halen’s somewhere on this mix.”

“Sammy Hagar or David Lee Roth era?”

He smiles, and a butterfly bomb goes off in my chest. I’m still trying to hold onto my irritation, but my goodness, do I love his relaxed side. Boyish and utterly disarming, that smile could convince a woman to wreck her plans for him.

Not me, though. Someotherwoman.

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