This will be perfect for letting out my frustrations about being here, stranded and abandoned for the holidays.
Hector’s scrutinizing gaze cuts through to my uncertain core though, reminding me of my dream. All too aware of his eyes on me—and the dream memory of his arms around me—I overcorrect, loosen my grip, and overshoot my swing. With a surge of almost slow-motion force, the tool misses the round, hits the chopping block, and bounces out of my hands. It clunks to the ground at the foot of a nearby tree, followed by an echoing sound of defeat.
A gaggle of birds fly away, squawking in fear. What I wouldn’t give to have weightless bones and the ability to soar and escape this.
“I meant to do that,” I say, covering up that catastrophe. I don’t dare cast a look in Hector’s direction. Just hearing his amused chuckle is enough to make my mortification skyrocket.
“Sure, dude.” He picks up my sad attempt. “I’ve got an extra pair, so you can keep the gloves. I wouldn’t want you getting even a tiny splinter in your manicured hands.”
I hate that he thinks he has me figured out, but that doesn’t stop me from sliding off the gloves and checking my nail beds, which are two weeks overdue for some TLC. My manicurist is probably worried sick about me.
I chop Hector with my words instead. “Is your masculinity really so fragile that you have to belittle my beauty regimen?”
“Is your ego really so big that you have to look perfect every single second?”
“Oh, so you think I look perfect?” I puff out my chest.
His newfound flush tells me he flubbed. Big time. “Don’t flatter yourself, dude. Perfect is overrated.”
Happy my grandparents aren’t around to witness this, I give in to my basest heated impulses.
“Listen, Lumber-jerk, I don’t like your attitude,” I say finally, crossing my arms over my chest so he knows I mean business. I’ve watched Mom do this with more than a dozen assistants, and it never fails to ignite the fear of God in their eyes.
“Yours isn’t exactly a winner either, Capitalist Crony.”
“Ah, I get it now. I’m the enemy because I’m rich.”
“Yourparentsare rich,” he corrects with far too much gleefulness. “What is it you contribute to the Prince family fortune again?”
At that vicious attack on my worth, my mind goes blank. No thoughts. Just miserable,miserablevibes. Never before has someone been able to banter me into submission.
Hector pulls back suddenly, voice becoming gruff instead of acidic. “If you care to contribute now, you can pick up those logs I already split. As I said before, they need to go inside.” He gestures toward the stack he’s created that sits a few inches off the ground.
I narrow my eyes at him before picking up an armful of logs, angry they’re snagging threads on a brand-new Fendi. Marching around to the front of the house, I stew the whole way.
When I get back inside, Grandma’s in the kitchen hovering over a pot of soup simmering on the stove. A couple of chopped carrots sit on the cutting board beside her. She barely hears me sneak up on her over the Nat King Cole Christmas record spinning across the room.
“I thought you didn’t use this anymore,” I say of the fireplace. I set the wood down in a decorative holder next to the already roaring fire. The warmth feels nice. It makes me miss my family room back in our sprawling Fifth Avenue apartment with its plentiful windows, Aubusson rugs, and views of Central Park.
“We didn’t for a long time. Gramps can’t spend his summers felling and chopping anymore, and he’s too proud to buy the split stuff.” She grumbles something unintelligible and then dumps the contents of her cutting board into the pot. Steam rises in wispy swirls. “Hector has been so helpful since coming to live with us. When he first arrived, I’ll admit, I didn’t think it was going to work out. He’s a bit of a workaholic. Coming and going all hours of the day. Up all hours of the night studying. But a month or so in, I realized Gramps and I were managing so much better with him around. He cleaned out our gutters without being asked and helped string up the lights outside. He knows the bookstore stock like the back of his hand. He even taught me how to make this delicious Puerto Rican bread pudding called budin a few months ago from his family recipe.” She wipes her wet hands on a mistletoe-patterned apron before taking a seat at the island.
“What a saint,” I mutter to myself, but Grandma catches it.
“As Hector likes to say, ‘Hard work feeds the soul.’” She winks at me as if hoping that will make the sentiment sink in better. I grimace. “Anyway, I made mention of how much we used to love spending the holidays around an open fire, so Hector found some cheap seasoned rounds in town. He brought them back as a little gift for letting him stay with us, and he’s been chopping away ever since. I think he likes it to help clear his mind.” She shrugs. “We’re using the wood for special occasions.”
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, staring straight into the flames.
“Your arrival, dear.”
Some of my anger whooshes out of me.
Grandma’s words should make me feel good, but for some reason they don’t. They make me feel remorseful for how I’m acting. Despite how comforting it can be to reunite with family, the circumstances and living arrangements—especially the snippy roommate, no matter howhelpful—are less than ideal.
I fumble for a distraction.
“What’s the Wi-Fi password?” I’m fiddling with my phone again.
Grandma grabs a sticky note from the fridge. “Try this, but good luck. Ever since we switched carriers, it’s a miracle if you can get anything to load around here. I told Gramps it wasn’t worth saving the few extra bucks, but he insisted.”
