“How do you take your coffee, at...” I glance at my watch. “Nine at night?”
“I take it alone. Without an annoying man who thinks it’s acceptable to steal an old man’s Christmas tree, without a man who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to burn his grandmother’s prized possessions at the holidays in front of the town who loved her. It’s?—”
I raise a hand, and she stops, snapping her mouth shut.
“I get it.”
“Do you?” She steps forward, basket at her side, stopping with only inches between us as deep browns burn up into my gaze.
Holy fuck, she’s . . .
I swallow as my body livens at her proximity. The first time that’s happened in, well?—
I glance at Maise.
That long.
“Done staring? Or is that just another one of your miserable traits?” Celeste whispers.
I let my eyes shutter closed as I take a step back, glad to be out of her space. I think?
“So, no coffee,” I finally say after opening my eyes.
“Nope.”
I retreat, shoulders sagging as I return to a frowning Maisey. “Sorry, kiddo, I tried.”
Her little face twists under disappointment.
I make my way to the shelf I abandoned my items on. Swiping them up, we pay and head out. Almost to the door, Maise stops to pull up her socks that have slipped down in her boots. I make a mental note to buy her new ones as I wait.
We make the door, only to be met with a flurry of brunette waves as I come shoulder to shoulder with Celeste. She rolls her eyes at me before schooling her face into a smile for Maisey.
So the grinch does have a heart.
A little taken aback, I make space and let her through.
Maisey follows her through the door but heads for our truck. I open the door for Maise, and she climbs on up. I set the bag of groceries in the footwell before closing her door.
Rounding the front of the truck, I spot Celeste in Hank’s old pickup they took to Maple Acres. She’s on her phone, the screen illuminating her face, the angles accentuated in the blue-whitelight. She’s all elegant cheekbones and pretty, pouty lips. Her hair tumbles over her shoulder as she tugs her bottom lip in between her teeth in what I imagine is concentration.
“Daddy, the lights?”
“Oh, sorry. We’re going.”
Maisey’s gaze strays to where mine was planted a second earlier.
She smiles as she presses her palm to the window. Outside, snow starts to flurry around the small convenience store. Our cue to get home.
I start up the truck and shift her into reverse.
Maisey’s stare bores into the side of my face.
“Okay, what?” I say, eyes on the road.
“She’s pretty, Daddy.”
“Who?”
