Something flickered between them, sharp and too brief, before Felicity bagged the books and sent them on their way.
The drive back was quiet, the hum of the tires and the falling snow filling the space. He kept his eyes forward, hands loose on his thighs, but he was far from relaxed.
Finally, he spoke. “That honey you brought in…where exactly did it come from?”
He’d learned to trust his instincts, and right now every one of them was warning him.
Chapter Four
Willow checked the time on her phone and winced.
Ninety minutes until people started arriving and three hours’ worth of tasks left.
The dining hall looked like a craft store exploded—boxes overflowing with pastel streamers, a helium tank, tissue paper poufs in various stages of fluff, and a balloon arch kit that claimed “easy, no tools required” in a font that felt like a personal attack.
“Easy, my butt,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at the package. She shoved the stepladder toward the wall where the banner would hang.
During art therapy, Honor and the veterans had made Layne’s BABY ON BOARD sign. It lay draped over the ladder like it was taking a nap—something Willow wished she could do. Beside it, twinkle lights waited in a hopeful tangle.
She moved from one pile to the next, weighing the time each task would require and trying to figure out where to start swimming in the sea of overwhelm.
Streamers first. No—lights first, so she wouldn’t have to weave them behind paper later.
She grabbed the stepladder and dragged it away from the wall to the big front window. The high heels and sweater dress she wore weren’t ideal for climbing ladders, but she knew if she didn’t dress for the event before she arrived for duty that morning, she’d end up wearing grubby chore clothes with her hair in a messy ponytail in all the shower photos. And she did not want her new niece or nephew to think their Aunt Willow was a bum.
Carefully, she climbed two rungs, testing the wobble. Not horrible. She reached her arms up to hook the first strand of lights over a nail and realized her heel was trying to skitter sideways.
“Don’t you dare,” she told the shoe, because lecturing footwear was the stage of stress she had reached.
Across the room, the door opened. Cool air skated in and then cut off.
She glanced over her shoulder, and suddenly the temperature warmed a few degrees.
Decker.
“Hey.” To cover her breathlessness, she looped the string light over another nail. “The dining hall’s closed for Layne’s baby shower. Breakfast and lunch are temporarily in the rec room.”
“Not here for food.” Decker’s voice was low and even, like a rock in the middle of her hurricane. “I’m helping.”
She twisted to look at him again. He stood just inside the door in a dark Henley and a thick jacket, hair damp from the snow. He scanned the chaos, taking it all in without flinching, like he’d expected exactly this level of disaster.
Finally, the warm weight of his stare landed on her.
“Helping, huh?” She offered a smile and hooked another section of the lights into place. “It’s Saturday. You should be enjoying your downtime.”
In quiet steps that barely echoed in the space that was never silent, he crossed the hall to stand next to the ladder. “Willow. I’m helping.”
He was a man of few words, and what he said landed hard. He wasn’t asking.
Something in her ribcage clenched. “Okay, then. Be prepared to take orders.”
“You’re not the first drill sergeant I’ve had.”
With a flash of a smile, she pointed around the room. “Twinkle lights across that wall. Streamers from the beams down to the arch. Banner centered under the window. And if you want a challenge, the balloon arch is trying to end me.”
The corner of his mouth quirked—almost a smile—and he shrugged out of his jacket.
Oh my…
