“Says the man who’s never built a magical sleigh.”
“Says the man who’s seen what happens when things collapse in public.”
I look up at him, paintbrush still in hand. He’s frowning at my work with the same focused intensity he probably brings to emergency calls. But his hands are gentle when he adjusts the wood frame, careful and protective.
Spencer used to criticize my projects by listing everything wrong with them, making me feel incompetent and scattered. But Asher’s corrections feel different. He’s trying to help me succeed, not prove I’ll fail.
“You know,” I say, stepping back to survey our progress, “for someone who claims he doesn’t do crafts, you’re pretty good at this.”
“It’s just construction with extra sparkles.”
“And magic. Don’t forget the magic.”
He gives me a look that suggests magic ranks somewhere below root canals on his list of things he believes in. “Right. Magic.”
“You don’t believe in Christmas magic?”
“I believe in proper engineering and following safety protocols.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s practical.”
“It’s heartbreaking.” I dip my brush in red paint, considering him. “When did you stop believing in magic?”
Something shifts in his expression. Closes off. “When I realized someone had to be the responsible one.”
There’s a story there. A hurt that makes my chest ache for reasons I don’t quite understand. Before I can ask more, the workshop door flies open, and my sister Kira bounces into the room wearing a football jersey, her short wavy brown hair surrounding her head like a halo. She’s fifteen and obsessed with sports.
“Mom sent me to—oh wow, you two look like Christmas barfed sparkles all over you!”
“Thank you for that poetic description,” I say, grinning.
“But good sparkles!” Kira clarifies quickly. “The kind where people get messy together and then realize they’re in love! Like in the movies!”
Asher makes a sound somewhere between a cough and existential dread. “We’re building a sleigh, Kira.”
“Uh-huh.” Kira examines us. “That’s how it starts. Messy projects. Then meaningful looks. Then kissing under the mistletoe.” She crosses her arms and puts all her weight on one foot with a smug look. “It’s very scientific.”
“What kind of science are you studying?” Asher asks, alarmed.
A wide smile splits across Kira’s face. “The science of love. With Great Grandma Hensley. She says understanding the steps is important for proper emotional development.”
I catch Asher’s eye and have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. He looks like he’s planning to have a serious conversation with Mom’s grandmother about educational content.
“We’re focusing on the sleigh part right now,” I say diplomatically.
“For now,” Kira says ominously. “Can I help? I’m excellent at managing glitter and romance supervision.”
And that’s how we acquire a teenage project manager who approves our color choices but questions our “romantic development timeline.” According to Kira, we need more “accidental touching” and “longing gazes.”
“She watches too much television,” Asher mutters under his breath after she leaves to the front of the shop to look for the wood glue.
“She’s not wrong about the touching thing though,” I say without thinking, then immediately want to disappear into the paint cans.
Asher goes completely still. The workshop feels smaller suddenly, charged with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with Christmas decorating.
“Mads...”
