Page 62 of Mad About Yule

She makes sure I don’t miss her eye roll, but she sinks onto a dining chair. She still looks like she’s running through all of her festival tasks in her head, but at least she’s sitting. That’s a step in the right direction.

“I salute your selflessness, but you deserve to eat meals, too.”

“It’s not selflessness. This could bring in a lot of revenue for downtown businesses, mine included. This was a calculated move. I’m not stupid, Griffin.”

“I never thought you were stupid.”

As fast as her eyebrows dart up, I know I’ve given her the impression I did. She’s a lot of things in my mind, but stupid has never been one of them.

“Sincerely. That was part of why I liked challenging you so much back in school, because youareso smart.” I throw my hand over my heart like I’m in the habit of making vows about stuff like this.

“Like the time you won theNumber One Debateraward out from under me? Because you think I’m so smart?”

“I said I like a challenge. I never said I like to lose.”

She twists her mouth, shaking her head at me.

“The potential revenue is huge, but that’s not the only thing.” She grimaces, but that frown dissolves again in an instant. Her face is like an Etch-a-Sketch, and all it takes is a little shake to erase her emotions away. “We haven’t had a really big Christmas celebration in almost fifteen years. Tourist dollars will be great, but even if it doesn’t bring in a ton of money, it’s going to befun.”

Doing it for fun is a terrible business strategy, but listening to her talk it up the last week has spread a little of her enthusiasm my way. Sunshine could use a celebration, and if she wants to be the one to give it to them, I can’t argue. She’s right, local businesses will benefit. Even a little bit could turn things around for a struggling small business owner.

“You still shouldn’t have to work yourself into the ground.”

“I’m not.”

It’s a testy response, like we’ve switched right back to our old dynamic. I lift an eyebrow at her, because if she thinks she can lie to me that obviously, she can think again.

“I have eyes, Hope. I’ve seen how much you’re doing.”

“Yes, I’m putting a lot into the festival, okay? It’s just…I don’t have a whole lot of successes behind me. I only stayed in Portland a couple of years before I ran back home. Then I worked a few jobs around here, but nothing stuck. I even got my realtor’s license and tried working with my mom. When that didn’t last, I couldn’t walk three feet in town without people giving me these sad, judgmental looks. I think everyone expected The Painted Daisy to close up in the first six months.”

Taking time to figure out what she wants to do for work shouldn’t equate to being a failure, but I know as well as anyone it can be hard to shake the role people want to put you in.

“I thought, if I got this festival right, maybe I could change people’s minds, and—” She groans, and shakes her head like she’s edited her thoughts, crossing them out before she can say them. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, I am going to give this town an amazing Christmas festival.”

She smiles again, but it’s empty.

“Why do you do that?” I ask gently.

“Do what?”

“Smile when you don’t mean it. You flash fake smiles all the time.”

The corners of her mouth fall. “Old habit, I guess.”

“I’d rather know what you’re really feeling than watch you play pretend.” When she shows me the real Hope hiding behind the plastic smiles, I want more.

“The feeling is mutual.”

The air in this small apartment feels too thick, too charged. I need to reroute this evening before we both reveal things we’d rather not admit. I rifle through her cupboards and finish preparing our dinner. I drain the spaghetti, pour warmed sauce into a bowl, and call it a meal. It’s lucky she has simple tastes, or I would have been out of my depth when I commandeered her kitchen.

I set a plate in front of her and bring glasses of water to the table.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever been served dinner in my own house.”

“No boyfriend ever made dinner for you?” I don’t know why I asked. I don’t want to know a thing about it. The idea of some other man fixing meals for her doesn’t do much for my appetite. I want to be the one taking care of her.

It’s like being around her switches on my Neanderthal brain, and I can’t think beyond the basics. Protect, provide, care.Kissgoes on there, too, but I’m trying to be a gentleman Neanderthal.

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