“I’m trying to help,” he says, softer this time. “Let me.”
The softness is worse than the growling. It sinks under my skin, lingering. I exhale, deflated. “Fine.”
He watches me for a beat too long, expression unreadable.
“Good,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost… warm in his voice.
Almost.
Two hours later, the finishing touches on the town square are done—mostly thanks to the committee, partly thanks to Mrs. Garland’s surprise thermos of peppermint cocoa, and definitely not thanks to me being banned from ladders. I’m sweeping pine needles off the sidewalk when I sense him again. I don’t know how I know he’s there. I just… do. His presence is like static. Like a shift in the air. Like gravity tipping in his direction. I straighten and turn.
He’s leaning against the side of the firetruck—because of course he brought a firetruck—arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t decipher. “You missed a spot,” he says.
I point the broom at him. “Say one more word about pine needles and I will shove this handle somewhere festive.”
His mouth twitches. “Tempting offer.”
Heat shoots up my neck. “That’s not what I—ugh. Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Twist my words.”
“I don’t twist them.” He pushes off the truck and stalks closer, each step heavy and deliberate. “You hand them to me already shaped like trouble.”
I swallow. “I’m not trouble.”
He stops inches from me. “You’re the most trouble I’ve seen in years.”
My breath stalls. His eyes drag over my face, lingering on my mouth again.
I hate that he does that. I hate that I like it.
“So.” I clear my throat. “You come to critique my sweeping?”
“No.”
“Then why are you?—”
He steps closer—close enough that the broom handle between us becomes the only thing keeping our bodies from touching. “I came to say thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For helping with the festival. For caring.” His voice lowers. “For giving Holly something to be excited about.”
Oh. That… hits differently.
I soften. “She’s a great kid.”
He nods. “She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
He watches me with something softer than I expect—something dangerous in its own way. “You’re good with her,” he murmurs. “Better than I am sometimes.”
“That’s not true,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens, and for a second I see something raw in his eyes. Vulnerability.
