Page 36 of Mad About Yule

“I can be a team player,” I say, my eyes on those soft, berry lips. “When I’m working with the right team.”

I’d told myself I’m not here for her, but when her cheeks wash with pink and her lashes flutter, teaming up with Hope sounds like an excellent idea.

TWELVE

HOPE

Griffin paid for lunch.

I offered to split the bill, but he just gave me a dirty look and pulled cash out of his wallet. I tell myself it’s all in the name of teamwork. Even though, as theboss, I probably should have been the one paying. The festival doesn’t have any money left and had never had that kind of discretionary cushion anyway, but still.

I also tell myself he only walks close beside me because of the damp, overcast weather, but that doesn’t sound entirely believable. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe it. He looks unspeakably handsome in the afternoon’s hazy light, wearing his thick brown barn jacket, unzipped so his flannel shirt of the day peeks out in the middle. Meanwhile, I’ve buttoned my navy blue peacoat to the top, and the November air still worms its way through every gap it can find, leaving me chilled as soon as we stepped outside.

“What kind of houses did you work on?” I ask as we weave between shoppers on Maple Street. Although he’d technically answered my questions in the diner, he still hasn’t said all that much about himself. I don’t really think he’s taciturn so much as calculated, like everything he has to say is on a need-to-know basis.

I can’t say aboutneed, but I want to get him to open up a little. For the sake of working together, of course.

“I started with a cookie cutter developer. They built huge neighborhoods using just a few plans, every house identical. We traveled all over the Northwest.” He scuffs a tan work boot across a pile of slush. “The last couple of years, I worked for an all-custom outfit.”

“You liked that better?” His voice had softened just enough to make me think so.

“The big developer was a little easier, since everything was the same. But I liked working on the custom homes more for the same reason—every job was different. More complex. Designed specifically for one family and their preferences.”

Oh yeah, he definitely has a note of fondness in his voice now. That added sweetness in his low voice twines through my belly. Even when he’s talking about houses, the man has appeal.

“What was the most interesting house you worked on?”

“Most interesting?” he echoes.

“You know, did you ever build a house with a bookcase that concealed a secret library or something? A two-story closet? Panic room? Oh—maybe a secret dungeon?”

“Secret dungeons. Where is your mind right now?”

I swat at his arm. “You know what I’m asking.”

He grins to himself, stepping out of the path of a steadily-dripping awning. “Most of the houses were pretty standard luxury: walk-in closets, butler’s pantries, wine cellars. Is a cellar as good as a dungeon for you?”

“I’ll take it.” I don’t really care about the wine cellar, but I’d kill for the walk-in closet and pantry. “Do you miss it?”

He cuts his eyes to me but goes back to watching the sidewalk. “No. I’m good where I’m at.”

Hmm. He might as well have told me his dog has pneumonia. I don’t buy it.

“You’re good working with your brother even though it’scomplicated?”

“Family stuff gets tricky.”

His careful tone reminds me of exactly why he came back, and I feel bad for being so nosy. I don’t want to push him to talk about his dad or the rest of hisfamily stuff.

“What’s your dream house like? Craftsman, modern, farmhouse?”

“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?”

The lilt of amusement in his tone tells me he doesn’t really think so, he just wants to be contrary. Seems pretty typical of the guy who’d liked nothing better than a good argument in high school.

“You’re the expert on houses.”

He lifts a hand to his ear and leans my way. “What was that?”

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