Page 18 of Love, Lies and Mistletoe
Nervous laughter escaped her before she silently cursed herself for feeling so self-conscious. There was no reason for it. He was handsome, but that was it. His cavalier attitude cancelled that disarming smile. Maybe the nice width of his shoulders too. Funny how the most beautiful people turned unattractive when their true colors showed. His thoughtlessness had been on full display that night at the fundraiser.
“Mind if I look around?”
“Not at all. Take your time.”
From the corner of her eye, she watched him wander while she emptied the box. Then she made a fresh pot of coffee for her noon appointment. When she found herself staring at her appointment book without registering a single thought, she snapped it closed.
Brant was sniffing candles when she walked over to the farmhouse hutch where they were displayed.
“Find anything you like?”
“Marshmallow Fireside is nice.” He set it back on the shelf.
“This one is my favorite.” She popped the lid off and held the candle under his nose. “Birch Morning.”
He inhaled and smiled. The skin near his eyes creased. She could tell he spent a lot of time outside. His skin, while smooth, was chafed from the elements. Layla found herself wondering how old he was. Maybe a little older than her? Near forty? It was hard to tell.
“Nice,” he said.
She set it down. “Do you shop for candles often?”
“Am I doing it wrong or something?” He took another from the shelf and wrinkled his nose when he took off the lid. He promptly put it back.
“No, I suppose not.” His cool demeanor was maddening. By contrast, her insides felt like guitar strings, taut and humming.
He circled the shop, taking his time, studying the fall wreaths and boiled wool pumpkin ornaments and the decoupaged cherry-red side table that Layla almost took home for herself a few times since she had it delivered to the shop last week.
“What’s the story behind this?”
Brant stood in front of an original watercolor by one of her favorite artists. The North Shore landscape was painted using stark colors—the lake was the color of an azure Mediterranean Sea, forests of chartreuse and emerald—but it made her ridiculously happy.
“Isn’t it beautiful? It’s by Frederic Fenton. He’s actually from the Twin Cities.”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Seriously?” She couldn’t believe it. Brant didn’t seem the type to rub elbows with fine artists.
“He was guest of honor at a dinner I went to over the summer. Nice guy. Loves lemon meringue pie.”
She smiled at the odd comment. “Funny, I would have tagged him as an apple walnut guy.”
Brant gave her a double take, smiling like he wasn’t sure if she were serious.
“I’m joking. I’ve never met him, so I have nothing to base my guess on.”
“You’d be surprised what you find out about people at dinner parties. Everyone feels awkward and talks way too much. I felt really out of place since I was the only guy wearing a dress shirt and tie.”
“What was everyone else wearing?”
“It was a Midsummer Night’s Dream party.”
“Oh?”
He stared at the floor. “Everyone was wearing a lot of…foliage. And wings.”
“Sounds like my kind of party.”
Brant looked at her again like he couldn’t tell if it was a joke. She was batting one thousand in the dry humor department.
