Then he nodded. “The wood’s in the shed. I’ll get it later.”
Relief flooded through her, warm and sweet and she smiled. “Tell me more about Midwinter. Your traditions like the eternal flame.”
So he did, voice gruff but warming to the subject as they worked. Telling her about the ceremonial foods—hearty stews and sweet breads that sustained people through long nights. The exchanging of small gifts at dawn, proof you’d survived another year’s darkness.
“You’ll see at the celebration,” he said, then caught himself like he’d forgotten he’d agreed to take her.
“I’m looking forward to it.” She stretched to hang an ornament on a high hook, going up on her toes. Even at full extension she couldn’t reach. “Um, could you?—”
Instead of taking the ornament, he gripped her waist and lifted.
She squeaked, grabbing at his shoulders for balance. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, those massive hands spanning her ribs. She hung the ornament with shaking fingers, feeling his strength, and how easily he held her.
“Good?” His voice had gone deeper.
“Yeah.” The word was breathless.
He lowered her slowly. Too slowly. Her body dragged along his, every inch of contact sending sparks through her. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his chest and his grip on her waist tightened. For a moment they stayed frozen, her feet touching ground but their bodies still pressed close, his hands still on her.
His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide. She felt his heart hammering under her palm, matching the wild rhythm of her own. If she went up on her toes again, if she just leaned in?—
He released her and stepped back, jaw tight. “The red fabric. What are we doing with it?”
Right. Decorating. Not standing here wanting him to kiss her again, to press her against the wall and?—
“Table runner. Or wall hanging. Whatever works.” She moved to the fabric, needing something to do with her hands. “Red is traditional for Christmas. Joy and warmth and?—”
She turned to find him holding one of the wooden ornaments, studying it with an unreadable expression. It was a star, carved with intricate patterns that looked almost like snowflakes.
“These were Grall’s mate’s.” His thumb traced the delicate carving. “She made them for Midwinter. She died in the plague.”
Juni’s throat tightened. The plague that had killed all the Latharian females. She’d read about it and couldn’t imagine what they’d all been through.
“They’re beautiful,” she said gently, moving to his side.
“She was talented.” He set the star down carefully, like it might break. “Grall shouldn’t have given these away.”
“Maybe he wanted them to have a home. To be used, not just stored.” She picked up the star and turned it so it caught the light. “We could hang them where they’ll catch the morning sun? Give them pride of place? Maybe she’ll see them where she is, and smile knowing they’re being used. Loved.”
Something shifted in his expression and he nodded. “By the east window. The light’s best there.”
They strung the ornaments together, working in comfortable silence now. Their hands brushed reaching into the box and each touch made her breath catch.
The room transformed around them. What had been stark and cold became warm and inviting. The lights cast golden shadows that danced on the walls. The silver plants caught every beam of sun. The red fabric turned the rough wooden table into something festive.
“It needs evergreen.” She surveyed their work, hands on her hips. “The smell is important. Pine or fir or?—”
“There’s til’vaash outside.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll cut some.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll wear your jacket. The big one.”
His lips quirked at the corner. Almost a smile. “Stubborn female.”
“Grumpy male.”
