To the world, he’s an impenetrable wall.
To me, though, there’s always been a chink in that armor that I’ve seen first hand has the capability of coming undone.
He stamps the snow from his boots, the thud echoing like a heartbeat, and lets the door swing shut behind him.
His gaze sweeps the shop, appraising, before landing on me.
His eyes widen a fraction, just enough to notice, formeto notice, before they soften.
“Noelle,” he says, his voice a low rumble. It’s weighted with years unspoken.
My pulse quickens, and a traitorous flutter in my chest has me nearly gasping. I manage to keep myself composed, though my grip around my mug tightens. “What brings you in?”
His gaze sweeps over the shop, taking in the twinkling lights, the silver garland draped around the banisters, the scent of pine and spice that lingers in the air.
For a moment, he looks almost out of place here but then his eyes find mine, and it’s like the rest of the world blurs.
That look pierces through me until I feel heat crawl up my neck despite the cold draft following him in.
“I didn’t know you worked here. I spotted it on the way into town and saw it was new. Stopped in to check it out,” he says finally, the faintest trace of amusement undercutting it.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and turn away before my face can betray me.
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a small, casual smile as I pretend to straighten one of the naivety displays nearby.
My coffee shakes in my hand, forcing me to set the mug down before I spill it everywhere. “I opened it a few years ago. It’s been going pretty strong since.”
When I glance at him again, he’s studying me like he’s seeing something unexpected that doesn’t quite fit whatever version of me he thought he knew.
“You own this place?” he asks, and there’s genuine surprise in his tone.
Normally, this is the point where the conversation turns predictable: most people can’t hide their skepticism.
They look at me, young and female, surrounded by twinkling lights and glittering ornaments, and assume it’s some hobby my father funded. I’ve heard every version of it.
How much did your dad invest? How deep in debt are you? Do you really think a Christmas store can survive year-round?
It’s the same song and dance I’ve had to dodge since the day I opened five years ago.
I’ve put my business degree to good use, and I have a section for current holidays outside of Christmas.
But the Christmas stock always sells the most, and our small online store keeps the sales coming in when the foot traffic is slow.
But when I finally turn back toward Grant, ready for that same flicker of doubt, I don’t find it.
He’s not looking at me with disbelief, he’s looking at me like he’s impressed.
His gaze drifts over the shop again, taking it all in with a kind of quiet reverence—the warmth, the care, the personal touches only someone who loves this could create.
Then it settles back on me, softer this time, like he’s recalibrating everything he thought he knew.
“You did all this?” he asks quietly.
“Every bit,” I say, my voice steadier now, though my heart’s still trying to catch up.
He nods slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “You always did have a thing for Christmas.”
The words pull a reluctant smile from me, a ghost of something familiar sparking between us. “Always been my weakness.”
