One corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About your shop.”
I gave a small shrug, the kind I’d practiced in the mirror for when people asked about my failing business. “It was a rough year, but I’ll rebuild. I always do.”
It wasn’t just the shop, though, that was bad enough.
It was my fiancé not showing up for our wedding because he’d decided he was in love with his much younger sister’s best friend. Thousands of dollars in deposits I couldn’t get back. Months of feeling too humiliated to step into my favorite places around town because everyone knew about my shame. Watching friends fall in love and move away while I cheered them on and pretended my own life wasn’t crumbling all around me.
“And is this job part of rebuilding?” he asked.
I hadn’t expected Luke to ask so bluntly. Or the genuine interest in his voice at how I might answer.
“Yes,” I said simply. “The whole damn town turns out for the Candlelight Walk, debating for days afterward which houses looked the best. If folks see my work, I might actually be able to afford more than instant ramen for dinner.”
He frowned, his mouth turning down at the corners. “You should charge more.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Tell that to people who have no qualms about pointing out how grocery store flowers are much cheaper. They love my work, but don’t see the actual labor that goes into it. Not to mention the cost or my years of experience.”
“I don’t think that,” he said quickly. “About your work, I mean.”
“Good,” I said, feeling that tiny glow inside me flare brighter. “Because you’re about to write me a check that will pay my heating bill for the next couple of months.”
His ears went pink at the reminder of our wealth disparity. “Oh, right.”
An awkward silence stretched between us where I could practically see him trying to figure out what to say next, his brilliant mind probably running through two dozen options and discarding them all.
“So,” I said, giving him an out. “I’ll get you a timeline and a list of what I’ll need access to and when. Sound good?”
He nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you need, Holly.”
Dangerous words, Mr. Byron.
Before I could make a joke about black AmEx cards, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He flinched, fishing it out and glancing at the screen, his posture becoming rigid and closed off.
“I’m sorry,” he said, already backing toward the hallway. “I have to take this. We can—uh—Ava has all the details. You and she can … coordinate.”
And just like that, he was gone again, retreating down the hall with quick, quiet steps.
“Right,” I muttered. “Good talk.”
I pulled in a slow breath and gathered up my portfolio, walking back through the rooms I’d discussed with Ava, taking snapshots with my phone of the space now that I was actually in it and not just scouring internet photos. I paused in the front hall, my reflection staring back at me from the glass of the sidelights by the door. Winter-pale skin dotted with freckles.Hair scraped into a tight ponytail because I’d been up late last night wiring garlands for another client.
“Okay,” I told the girl in the glass quietly. “He’s weird, but you’ve worked with weirder.”
The reflection lifted her chin.
By the time I was done here, the Stephen Crossmore house would be the talk of the town.
And if somewhere along the way, a certain nerdy, skittish, ridiculously handsome man realized he didn’t disappear every time I walked into a room?
Well. That would just be a bonus.
two
. . .
Luke
I madeit exactly five steps down the hall before I stopped, pressed my back against the wall, and let out a long, slow breath.
