“He always left one or two behind when he visited me in Portland.” Those weekends when our schedules lined up just right, and he’d drive north to do nothing but have a beer with me and watch a game—I hadn’t known how important they were until I’d lost them. I want like anything to have just one more.
“I should have had them delivered on a subscription service. A twelve-pack of guitar picks sent to our door every month.”
“There’s your side-hustle.”
We both laugh, but she keeps watching me. “I think you’re the one who needs the side-hustle.”
“No time for one. Too many elf houses to build.” My cheeky grin doesn’t seem to comfort her.
“Honey. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered me for the project.” I’m not complaining—aside from the bruised face, I don’t mind the work.
“Not that. The business.”
The weight in my chest sinks down into my stomach. I need a second before I can answer. I don’t like lying to her, and I’ve told this particular lie a time or two already.
“I want you to do what makes you happy, whatever that is.” She waits, as though if she stares hard enough, she’ll see the truth hiding in my eyes.
She just might, and I can’t let that happen.
I flash a bright, fake smile that would make my Homecoming Queen boss proud. “I am happy, Mom. Working alongside you and Caleb is right where I want to be.”
She rubs her hand along my back and gives me a gentle pat. “You’ll let me know if that changes?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
And I won’t. I was off doing my own thing when Dad died. From here on out, I’m putting my family first.
She nods once. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Then she slips away into the kitchen, leaving me to stew in my lies.
TEN
HOPE
I reachfor the warehouse door but hesitate like it might bite me.
I don’t really want to go in there. After yesterday’s game of Engaged or Not Engaged, Griffin will surely have questions for me. I don’t feel like telling him anything about Mark or Mom’s meddling—and definitely not everything that came after. The thought of having to brush off an interrogation about that humiliation turns my stomach, especially if Griffin is the one asking.
He doesn’t seem like the sympathetic type. People mostly fall into two camps: those who think I was at fault somehow, and those who think I should have dated someone with a better sense of humor. Which, incidentally, still puts the blame on me.
Griffin would absolutely blame me.
Nope. Time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get moving. I shake off the wisps of anxiety swimming around in my stomach and pull the warehouse door open. Inside, the question of just what Griffin might think of me dissolves, overshadowed by a glimpse of pure Christmas magic.
He finished the first little building. Not just four walls and a roof, but he’d bumped out the front part like he said and attached all the trim around the door and windows. The plywood is bare, but I can imagine how it will look in the end. A brightly colored little bakery so inviting you’ll wish it were real.
Griffin emerges from behind it, and some of my plywood-induced euphoria clears at the sight of his ghastly purple bruise. Even if he’d irritated me enough yesterday to tempt me to wallop him again, I hate the proof of my dumb accident.
“You finished it already,” I say, stating the obvious.
“I had to make a few adjustments to your plans. I hope you don’t mind.”
He sounds…dare I say it? Humble. That’s an even bigger shock than the completed house.
“I’ve made it so it can easily be disassembled for transport to town square.”
