"Apparently." Alex's breath ghosted across my lips. "What's it trying to say?"
That you belong here. That I've been waiting for you. That the valley knows what it wants.
"I have no idea," I fudged.
The moment stretched, taut and electric. The chandelier outside the booth began to chime softly, crystals singing against each other despite the still air.
Alex stepped back first, his exit from the booth carefully controlled despite the flush on his cheeks. "What else did you restore?"
He'd performed on Broadway stages while I'd been sanding floorboards in a town most people only visited for kitsch Christmas photos.
What did I have to offer someone like him? Callused hands and sawdust in my hair? A life measured in dovetail joints and carefully restored rosettes?
The valley might know what it wanted, but did Alex?
I followed him out, my heart hammering. "I refurbished the proscenium arch. Want to see?"
We walked down the center aisle, and I watched his professional eye assess everything—the sight lines, the acoustics, and how the morning light slanted through the high windows. He was trying to stay detached and analytical, but his fingers trailed along the back of each seat we passed. I recognized the gesture. Reacquainting himself and coming home.
"The acoustics are different," he said quietly. "Better."
"We adjusted the angle of the back wall three degrees during renovation. Makes a huge difference in sound reflection." When he looked surprised that I'd heard him, I shrugged. "Architecture degree. Comes in handy."
"You're full of surprises."
I continued the tour. "Workshop's this way. I'll show you where the magic happens. At least the sawdust part of it."
The workshop was my sanctuary, and bringing Alex into it was significant to me. Tools hung in careful arrangement on the walls. The scent of fresh-cut pine mixed with decades of theater dust and the cinnamon-clove smell that permeated everything during the Christmas season.
"Your last name is Blitzen?" Alex asked, running his hand along my workbench. "Like the reindeer?"
I smiled. People asked me that question my entire life. "Actually, the reindeer is named after my family. My great-great-grandfather Johan Blitzen was one of Yuletide Valley's founding fathers, back when it was still called Upper Creekville."
"You're serious, and I don't remember the story from when we were in school together." He ran his fingers over the Macy's counter I was building, testing the smoothness of a dovetailed joint with a dancer's sensitivity to texture.
"Well—that. My parents weren't big on the story, and they did their best to bury it. I got interested in genealogy as an adult. Family legend says Johan left Sweden in 1889, looking for somewhere to practice traditional woodworking, but nothing felt right. Then he got lost in these mountains during a terrible blizzard."
I picked up a chisel to show him the rosette detail work along the counter's edge. "According to my grandfather, a mysterious stranger in red helped Johan find shelter—"
The chisel slipped. I'd been watching Alex's face instead of my hands—mesmerized by the way the morning light sparkled in his eyes.
The blade skipped across the wood and sliced across my palm.
"Shit." Blood welled up immediately, bright red against my skin.
"Ben!" Alex was there in an instant, his hand catching my wrist. "Let me see. Do you have a first aid kit?"
"Workshop rules." I pointed.
He cleaned and bandaged my hand with the careful precision of someone who'd dealt with theater injuries. His fingers on my wrist were steady, competent.
"You don't have to—" I started.
"I know." He looked at me. "But I want to. You've been taking care of everyone else. Let someone take care of you for a minute."
The bandage glowed faintly gold for a moment. Holly's healing magic, maybe. Or the valley approving.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
