“I’ll probably need a guide,” she says. “You know—to start the fire.”
We watch each other as the moment stretches out between us. If I thought seeing her dance to Van Halen rocked my world, having her open the door for me like this has it beat by a factor of ten.
“I know a guy.”
Her grin presses the accelerator on my heart, revving my engines. I’m seriously tempted to see if I can crack that door a bit wider, when she snaps out of whatever had her gazing at me like that. She dusts her hands on her jeans and claps them once.
“I’ve got paint open.” She gestures behind her at the Wonderland house. “I should probably keep working on that before it gets all filmy and gross.”
She hustles over, pulls her rubber gloves back on, and starts painting away like she wants to paint over this whole charged conversation. But then she shoots a look at me over her shoulder. Our gazes collide, and her eyes are full of a fiery hope that strums through me like a plucked guitar string.
Maybe I’ve got a merry Christmas to look forward to after all.
* * *
A couple of hours later,I’ve nearly got the second Winter Wonderland house done, and Hope’s admiring her progress on hers, rubbing her hands together.
I admire the house, too. The plans were cute, and even the unfinished house had charm. But this? It’s freaking adorable. She’s painted the building a warm orange, with a pink and white awning. In the front window she painted cakes and sweets on display, and they’re so well done, I feel like I could reach in and take a slice. The North Pole’s picture-perfect bakery.
If I thought I was the key to getting Hope’s Winter Wonderland pieces built, seeing this one proves just how wrong I was. I can build them, but she’s breathing life into them. Turns out there is a little magic in here, and it all belongs to her.
“What do you think?” she asks when I’ve gone on staring too long.
“It’s enchanting.”
She lifts an eyebrow at me. I’m gearing up, ready for a remark from her on my word choice, but her smile lets me know it was the right one.
“I like that. That’s exactly what I’m going for.” She presses her left thumb into the base of her right hand. “You’ve got some Christmas spirit in you, after all.”
“Maybe.” I step closer. “Does your hand hurt?”
“Painting this house is different from working on a canvas. I’m just a little sore, that’s all.” She flexes her fingers a few times, trying to work out the stiffness.
“Here.” I take her hand in both of mine, running my thumbs up her palm and across the pad in continuous strokes. I work down each finger in small, rolling motions, digging in just a bit at the base of her thumb. Her muscles are tight from holding the paintbrush for hours, but after a minute, they warm and loosen.
“That feels so good. Where did you learn to do this?”
“When I played baseball. I got massages to keep my pitching hand loose, or it could seize up on me. Even now, I do exercises so don’t strain my hands. Carpal tunnel can end a carpentry career.”
I go through the movements again but slower this time, massaging from the base of her hand to the tips of her fingers. My brain has finally caught up to what my hands are doing, and I’m not sure if I should stop touching Hope immediately or go on massaging her fingers until she tells me to knock it off. The second feels more likely at this point.
I work higher, running my thumbs over her wrist and up along the tendon. Her whole forearm must be sore after days of painting. I’m just trying to prevent another workplace injury.
By touching her as much as I can, for as long as I can.
“You really liked working construction,” she says.
“Yeah, of course. Building something from nothing? Seeing real, tangible results of my work? There’s nothing better than that.” My thumb slides up along the center of her soft forearm like it’s got its own definition ofnothing better.
“Do you ever think about going back?”
I slow my fingers and drag them down her forearm, over her wrist, and along her hand until I finally let her go. Touching Hope worked like a truth serum, and I can see by the soft curiosity in her eyes I’ve revealed too much. Maybe to both of us.
“I am back.” I toss her a smirk, even though I don’t feel it. “I’m building these for you, and they’re looking good, right?”
“They’re better than good. That’s the point. You could open your own custom carpentry business here.”
My grin falters. “That’s not on the horizon.”
