“Or is he just responding to the first human contact he’s had all day?” Bree straightens up, but she’s smiling.
“Not true. He made several friends at the Christmas Market. We walked over there because I needed to reward your emergence from the writing cave with a treat. I bought an assortment of homemade marshmallows in fun flavors.” I wag the cellophane bag tied with red, green, and gold ribbon for her to see.
“How festive,” she says dryly.
“But you like them. Nina left some the other day and they’re gone. I didn’t eat them. The dog didn’t eat them. So …”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things about you, Bree Turley.” The words come out more earnestly than I intend, having rememberedthat technically she’s no longer Bree Darling. That is, if she takes my name.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Chocolate sounds perfect.”
“Hot chocolate?” I ask, also having noticed she consumes a lot of the regular stuff in all forms—squares, bars, morsels.
“If you insist.”
As I heat the milk, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s kneeling on the floor with the dog, running her fingers through his fur and murmuring to him. She looks more relaxed, less guarded than when we first started this arrangement.
I join them by the Christmas tree and place a steaming mug in front of her with the marshmallows in a bowl on the coffee table. “How’s the writing going?”
“Actually, really well. I’m making serious progress. At this rate, I’ll meet my double deadline.” She wraps her hands around the mug, inhaling the chocolate steam.
“Double deadline?”
“I missed the first one, meaning I have to double down to meet this one.”
Without prompting, she tells me about Lorna Sorrento and Drake Miller, who made money in prospecting, but that doesn’t keep him warm on cold western nights. It’s like she’s still in her story world and I lean in, rapt, totally drawn into the world she’s created.
Who knew I’d enjoy cowboy romance? Or maybe it’s just the storyteller.
As if surfacing from her thoughts, Bree asks, “How have you been keeping busy?”
“Oh, you know. Dog walks. Training. Secret projects.”
She freezes mid-sip. “What was that last one?”
“Training?” I try, failing to look innocent.
“Fletch.”
“Okay, so I may have enlisted some of my teammates to help with your parents’ house.” I brace for her anger, but instead, she just looks stunned.
“You’re fixing it up? But that’s too much. I can’t?—”
“My teammate’s family, Mikey Cruz, has a contracting business. His dad is semi-retired and usually takes December off for Advent and family time, but had driven past that house numerous times, wishing he could give it a makeover. Well, his wife said that every time they drove by, and maybe he was tired of hearing about the fixer-upper.”
She blinks blankly as if I’m speaking a foreign language.
“Anyway, we evaluated what needs to happen inside and out. It’s a long list. But we did preliminary repairs to the roof and replaced some damaged siding to protect it from the elements this winter. There are some plumbing and wiring issues, plus—” I hesitate, unsure if I’ve overstepped.
Bree remains quiet.
“I hope that’s okay. Maybe I should have asked first.”
She sets down her mug. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because ...” I search for an explanation that won’t reveal too much. “Because I can. Because you needed help. Because perhaps you deserve a house where love can live?—”
