Page 39 of Mad About Yule

“Yeah, well, the door was unlocked, and you didn’t notice me come in.”

My skin crawls just thinking about it. Our small town is reasonably safe, but that doesn’t mean everyone behaves perfectly all the time. Maybe it’s a holdover from Portland, but I don’t want her in here alone.

“I don’t want to bug you.”

“It’ll bug me more if you don’t call me.”

She finally hears the rough edge in my voice, but instead of helping her see the seriousness of the situation, it just switches her attitude on.

“How have I survived twenty-eight years without you here to hero me up?”

This woman tries to get under my skin, I swear. Always has. Probably why I’ve always given her the same right back. “Don’t be difficult. Just call me the next time you decide to come in early.”

Yeah, that does it. Her face goes even pinker, clashing beautifully with her bright red blouse.

“I’m not being difficult—that’s you. You’re the one who keeps sweeping in and telling me what to do.”

“Me? I’m being nice. I brought you donuts this morning.”

Her face brightens, irritation gone. “You brought me donuts? I forgive you.”

She rushes past me to the box of treats.

“I don’t think I should have to be forgiven for trying to protect you.”

Wait—those words aren’t right. Or, maybe worse, they areexactlyright. Thinking about her in here all alone when nobody’s around…yeah, I want to protect her.

She turns slowly toward me, apple cinnamon cake donut in hand, eyes wide. Pretty sure I don’t want to hear whatever sassy thing is about to come out of her mouth. Not when I’m already halfway to digging my own grave.

“Just say you’ll call me next time.” My voice goes so low it’s practically a growl. We don’t need to go around in circles over this.

“Oh my gosh, fine. I will call you. Are you satisfied?”

“Thoroughly.”

I stare at her for a second, imagining her calling me for something other than to take part in an early-morning work crew. I don’t wade very deep into those thoughts before my attention zeroes in on Hope taking a big bite out of her donut.

Eating is not an attractive activity. I don’t want to hear anyone eat, and I don’t especially want to see anyone eat, either. But my eyes are stuck on Hope like they’ve been welded there. The way her jaw works as she chews, her throat shifting as she swallows, her little pink tongue darting out to lick away a crumb at the corner of her mouth—I’m as engrossed as I was watching her dance.

I should not be tracking every move of her lips, but at the moment, I’m not sure there’s anything her mouth can do that I wouldn’t like.

I should have bought a bottle of water at the café so I could douse my head with it.

“This is so good,” she groans. “I want to have babies with this donut.”

Everything about this morning has conspired to throw me off my game. My newfound protective streak, my abnormal urge to watch Hope eat, the weird twisting thing my stomach did when she said the wordbabies. Probably best to just clock out now and call it a day.

But of course I won't. I grab a donut and set the box aside. We eat in a silent stare down, like we’re waiting on someone to call “draw.”

After a minute, she dusts off her fingers and points vaguely at me.

“How’s your face?”

The words are sassy, but her tone is sincere.

“Not so bad anymore.” If I didn’t have to field “What the heck happened to you?” twenty times a day, I wouldn’t even think of it.

“I’m sorry.”

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