She nods, but I know I can’t totally take her nerves away. She’s dedicated to this thing—she’s poured endless time and energy into it. Of course her heart’s wrapped up in it. It’s also probably the wrong time to tell her that my heart’s wrapped up inher.
A dark green McBride’s Landscaping cherry picker trundles up Maple Street to stop in front of us. Caleb agreed to help us get the lights on top of the lamp posts today and decorate the big tree tomorrow. Hope gently pulls her hands from mine before he can see.
I flex my fingers, working out the ache her absence leaves behind.
Caleb rounds the truck, a Cheshire Cat grin stretching across his face. “Good afternoon.”
He’s practically crooning. I don’t think I’ve seen his “I know something you don’t want anyone else to know” smirk since high school.
I shoot him a warning glare, silently reminding him of his promise to keep quiet. He just gives a tiny shake of his head like I shouldn’t be worrying mine over it. I am very much worried. I don’t believe for a second he’ll betray the trust I asked him to keep…but he’s still my brother. He’ll make this awkward for me if he can.
“Thanks for bringing the truck to help us out, Caleb,” Hope says. “We wouldn’t have managed it without you.”
He just grins at me. “I’m sure Griffin would have figured out a way.”
We work together to string the lighted lengths across Maple Street, each with a festive garland-wrapped star in the center. Caleb mans the bucket while I feed him the wire, and Hope runs interference, stopping traffic whenever we need it. We hang tinsel-festooned candy canes, bells, and snowmen from the lamp posts, and make sure all the wiring is safe and secure from curious little fingers.
Daylight’s fading, but we make good time. Caleb climbs into the bucket to secure the decorations to the final lamp post, and Hope passes him the last snowman.
“Did Griffin tell you how much he loves Christmas decorations?” he asks her. One of many leading questions of the afternoon.
She cuts her eyes to me. “He hasn’t been super forthcoming about that, no.”
“His favorite thing was our Mom’s old wooden nutcracker. Why don’t you tell her about that, Griffin?” Then, he slowly rises into the air, the whirring of the bucket motor serving as his laugh track.
She sidles closer to me, eyes wide and full of good humor. Of course she likes this reminder of my irrational fear.
“All right,” I say. “Let it out. You can laugh.”
“It’s just cute.”
“My childhood trauma’s cute. That’s nice.”
She knocks her shoulder against mine. “You two are cute. And this thing you’re doing with your face, trying to be all stoic and not embarrassed at the way he called you out? Super cute.”
Hmm. I guess if she can think my continuing discomfort around nutcrackers of any size is an appealing thing, I’ll let her. She doesn’t need to know how badly I’d ground my teeth when I carried the two for her a couple of weeks ago.
“Cute’s not the word you’re looking for.”
“I know.” She leans closer. “It’s sexy.”
She drops her voice, dragging it out into a fake-sultrysexay. Laughter bursts out of me at how easily this woman can sneak right past my defenses and wrap herself around my heart. If she weren’t so eager to play things cool, I’d pull her into my arms and kiss her right in front of my brother. Give him a taste of his own medicine, and really shove my love in his face.
Love.
My brain tests the weight of that word for a second. It’s too much after only a few weeks with her, too heavy…but it fits her exactly right. She’s taken up space in my life, and all I can think to do is make more room. She can have it all.
She can move in, redecorate, and stay as long as she likes.
Hope blinks up at me, her teasing gone. “What?”
I must be doing something—staring too hard, smiling dreamily, somehow giving these big feelings away. I’ve never told a woman I loved her before, but those words sit at the edge of my mouth. The sun sets over Maple Street, people wander all around us on their way to shops, and the smell of the cherry picker tinges the air.
I can think of a dozen prettier places to say these words. And more private, too.
The whirring of the bucket coming back down to ground level shakes me out of my daze. I don’t want to tell the woman I love that I love her for the first time in full view of my gloating brother.
“I’ll tell you later,” I say just for her.
