“Did he just—?”
“Sunshine!” Peanut repeats, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty Sunshine!”
My cheeks burn. “He must have heard you this morning. Amazons are really good at picking up—”
“Sunshine!” Peanut squawks, and now he sounds delighted with his new vocabulary.
Ryder’s trying not to smile. “I think he approves.”
“Or he’s mocking us. Hard to tell.”
“Smart bird! Very smart!” Peanut announces.
“Okay, he’s definitely mocking us now,” I say, but I’m fighting a smile too.
The attic ladder unfolds with a protesting creak. Ryder tests the rungs before climbing, his movements careful and sure.
From my position holding the ladder steady, I have an excellent view of exactly how well those jeans fit. The denim molds to his powerful thighs as he climbs, and his ass has to be among the top ten on the planet. When he reaches up to push open the attic access, his thermal shirt rides up just enough to reveal a tantalizing strip of green skin.
I should be ashamed of myself. Here he is, being helpful and practical, and I’m ogling him like some teenager with a crush. But honestly, the male has fantastic—
“See anything up there?” I call, forcing my gaze up to his face when he looks down. My cheeks are burning, and I pray he can’t tell what I was thinking about.
His amber eyes seem to hold mine for a moment longer than necessary, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch like he knows exactly where I’d focused my attention.
“Several boxes marked ‘Christmas.’ They’re pretty water-stained, though. Might not be much worth saving.”
“Bring them down anyway. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He passes down four boxes, each one heavier than expected and showing the damage of years in an unheated attic. Water stains bloom across the cardboard, and the signs of mice nibbles are clearly visible.
We settle on the living room floor to survey the damage, and it’s worse than I’d hoped. The first box contains delicate glass ornaments, some of which have been crushed under shifting weight. Several strands of garland have been chewed and frayed, their tinsel hanging in uneven gaps like a smile missing teeth.
“Oh,” I breathe, lifting what used to be a beautiful crystal angel. One wing has snapped off entirely, and the other is cracked down the middle. “This was one of her favorites.”
Ryder reaches for the angel, examining it closely. His shoulder presses against mine as he leans in, and I’m acutely aware of his warmth, the subtle scent of woodsmoke and soap that clings to him.
“The break is clean,” he says quietly, his breath stirring my hair. “If you had some clear epoxy…”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“No,” he agrees, and I can feel the rumble of his voice through where our arms touch. “But it would still be beautiful. Just different.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him more closely, remembering how he’d trusted me with his fear this morning. There’s understanding in his voice, like he knows what it means to find something precious that’s been broken by time and neglect.
The second box yields more of the same—faded ribbon, ornaments missing hooks, lights that probably haven’t worked since the Clinton administration. Each broken piece feels like a small loss, another connection to my grandmother’s memory damaged beyond repair.
When I lift out what used to be an ornate wooden music box, my throat works as I swallow hard. The lid is bowed and swollen from water damage, and when I try to wind the mechanism, nothing happens.
“This was her favorite,” I whisper, cradling the broken treasure. “She’d play it every Christmas morning while we made breakfast.”
Ryder reaches for it carefully. “May I?”
I hand it over, watching as his large hands examine the delicate mechanism with surprising gentleness. He turns it over, tests the key, and peers at the warped wood.
“The wood is damaged, but the mechanism might be salvageable,” he says quietly. “I could try—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. My vision blurs, and I blink hard against the sudden sting of tears. “Some things feel too precious to risk further damage.”
