I set down my coffee mug before I spilled it, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m having a breakdown in your living room.”
“You’re having a hard day in my living room,” Luke corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Something in my chest loosened at that. A hard day felt survivable. A breakdown felt like failure.
I lowered my hands and looked at this quiet, awkward man who’d spent the afternoon helping me unload supplies and was now sitting across from me, not flinching from my sad tale of woe, not trying to rush me through it or make it better with empty platitudes.
He was just … here. Fully present.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“For what?”
“For not being weird about this. For just … letting me fall apart a little.”
“Anytime,” he said, and I one hundred percent believed him.
We sat there for a while longer, the fire crackling, the silence comfortable now instead of heavy. I told him about losing my shop—how betrayed I’d felt when the landlord sold the building out from under me to a developer who wanted to put in yet another real estate office. How I’d scrambled to find a new space and ended up in the attic above Wharfside Bookshop, which was better than nothing, but so much less than what I’d had.
Luke told me about moving to Mistletoe Bay. About how suffocating his success had been, how everyone suddenly wanted something from him—money, access, a piece of the tech golden boy. How moving to a small town meant more anonymity.”
“I hardly think you’re anonymous. People here definitely know who you are,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but they don’t care as much. They’re more interested in whether I’m going to participate in town events or if I’m going to restore this house properly or if I’m going to be a good neighbor.” He smiled faintly. “It’s refreshing, honestly.”
“Is that why you volunteered your house for the Candlelight Walk?”
“Partly. Mostly because I was strong-armed into it by Juniper Hart, but also because I like the idea of sharing something beautiful. The previous owners kept this place looking like a museum. I wanted to show folks it could feel alive, too. Part of now instead of the past. Like a home people could actually imagine living in.”
“It does,” I said. "Feel alive, I mean. You can tell someone actually lives here. In the best way.”
His eyes brightened behind his glasses, and he ducked his head slightly, like he was trying to hide how much the compliment meant to him.
“Holly, I—” He leaned forward slightly, like he was working up the courage to say something. His lips parted?—
A knock at the front door made us both jump.
“Uh, that’s probably Jerry,” he said, rubbing his palms over his thighs, the moment broken.
Luke stood and headed toward the front hall. I set down my coffee and followed, my stomach twisting with anxiety about what Jerry was going to tell me. Through the sidelight window,I could see Jerry’s truck idling out front, exhaust visible in the cold air.
Luke opened the door to reveal a wind-chapped Jerry. “Sorry for the wait,” he said. “What’re we looking at today? Dispatch was kind of vague.”
I explained the symptoms while Jerry nodded, pulling on a pair of work gloves. Luke and I followed him down the brick walk, and I stood there shivering while Jerry poked around under the hood, making thoughtful humming noises that told me absolutely nothing.
After about fifteen minutes, he straightened and shook his head.
“Bad news, Holly. Your alternator’s shot, and some of these belts are on their last legs, too. I’ll have to tow it back to the shop.”
My stomach sank. “How much is this going to cost?”
Jerry sucked in air through his teeth. “Parts and labor? Probably around nineteen hundred. Could be up to twenty-five if I find other problems once I get in there. These models are notoriously finicky.”
Twenty-five hundred dollars.
