Page 7 of Mad About Yule

He lifts his eyebrows rather than answer.

“I’ve done the research.” I work on staying calm and collected even though I’m tempted to get shouty. Yet another déjà vu about being around Griffin. “It’s a reasonable number to expect from all of the ads and promotions I’m doing.”

One of his eyebrows ticks even higher, and I seriously want to flick it back down. Get back where you belong, you thick, skeptical caterpillar.

“You did the research and advertising, too? Shouldn’t the town have hired a firm for that?”

I stand straighter. “My degree is in marketing. It’s not a stretch for me to do the research.”

He tilts his mouth into a brief frown. “If you say so. But I think you should aim lower.”

“Always a garbage piece of advice, in my opinion.”

“I’m not saying to cancel the thing. I just wouldn’t count on that kind of a turnout.”

Would punching my volunteer in the nose make a bad first impression?

“I’ll note your concerns in my log.”

His smile is relaxed and easy, like my chilly retort hasn’t fazed him a bit. Meanwhile, my blood burns through my veins with every angry heartbeat. This is part of what had driven me so crazy back in high school—he could criticize and nitpick until I totally lost my cool, but he never got worked up no matter how much we argued. He remained totally unbothered, which only made me furious back then.

Just like it’s starting to do now.

“What are you doing here with a degree in marketing?” he asks. “Last I checked, there aren’t many jobs like that in Sunshine.”

“I worked in marketing for a few years in Portland after college.”

“But…?”

“But now I’m back.” Those years had been a failed experiment in living the Big City Life: sharing a tiny apartment, working at a high-end firm downtown, and ultimately realizing none of it suited me. The strange loneliness in the middle of a constant rush of people, the corporate craze of nonstop deadlines, knowing I was just a worker bee in my company hive—it had all been an epic disaster.

Not that he’ll get any of the gory details. He would just use them as ammo one way or another.

“Huh.”

He looks me up and down again like maybe he has more questions. Whatever he wants to know about my time in Portland, he can keep it to himself. Reliving the low points of my life with him isn’t part of our deal.

I clear my throat and nod at the papers on the workbench. “Are you going to be able to make these or not?”

“Sure.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It’s more reassuring than if I’d said no.”

I groan over his perverse need to win the simplest conversations. “Will figuring out the designs cause a delay?”

“Shouldn’t. You’ve got plenty of notes.”

See? Even that sounds like an insult.

“It’s called being thorough.”

That smirk touches his mouth again. “Who’s going to paint and decorate all this?”

I raise my hand like a kid in school.

“You’re a regular one-woman band around here. Is there anything you’re not doing?”

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