Sebastian
Idon’tknowwhatpossessed me to tell her about the tree lighting.
I never go to the damn thing except to haul out that stupid ladder and stand around like a prop while the mayor gives his annual speech about holiday cheer.
But there I was at eight in the morning, offering up small talk like I’m some kind of charmer.
She handed me a cinnamon roll with those delicate fingers and that smile like sunlight breaking through heavy cloud cover, and I lost my head.
Or maybe I found it.
Hell if I know.
The cinnamon roll melted on my tongue.
Sweet. Warm. Perfectly spiced.
A taste of what she can do with her hands.
My jaw tightens.
I shove the thought aside. Loretta’s right. I haven’t had anyone in my bed in years.
Last thing I need is to scare off the one person who might make this seasonbearableby imagining her hands onmeinstead of kneading dough.
I carry the rest of my tools to the shed, then head inside.
The kitchen smells like garlic and coffee.
My mother’s already chopping vegetables for soup she insists on making, even though I stocked the pantry. Her gray hair is braided back. A streak of flour rests on her cheek.
“Morning, Mom,” I say, kissing her temple.
“You’re up early,” she replies without looking. “Loretta told me you were outside the inn flirting on the porch before dawn.”
“I was not flirting,” I mutter. “I was being polite.”
“Polite?” She lifts a brow. “Polite would be waving. Polite would be holding the door.Politewould not be accepting baked goods from a young woman with a smile that could melt snow on a January morning. That’s according to Loretta, by the way.”
I sigh. “You’re as bad as she is.”
“Loretta’s right. You need someone to look after you when I’m too old to chase you around with my wooden spoon.”
My chest tightens. “We’re not talking about this.”
She softens, just slightly. “Fine. Change the subject. Tell me about the girl.”
“How is that changing the subject?” I grumble. Then give up. “Her name’s Willa. She inherited the bakehouse. She’s… young.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-two, according to Loretta.”
Mama whistles. “Sixteen years younger? Lord help her. You carry too much weight in that heart of yours.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Mom.”
She laughs, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m teasing. Sort of. But you’ve always tried to carry the world. Maybe it’s time someone came along who wouldn’t let you.”
