He clears his throat, breaking the magic of the moment. “You may as well put that back in the box.” He lets go of my wrist, looking away and turning his back to me.
My chest caves as my lungs deflate. Shoulders curling inwards, I sag like a melting snowman. I toss the sprigs back into the box, knowing it’s for the best. My father would probably have a mental breakdown if he came back from Scotland to find me shacked up with Sawyer. After everything he’s been through, the last thing I want to do is put him under more stress, especially when Sawyer’s been his rock these past few years, but he’s also been my rock since I was a little girl. A constant in my life and someone who I can tell anything to.
“Hey look at this.” Sawyer holds up an old painting of mine from art college. “That should go on the wall.”
I roll my eyes, no longer in the mood for his teasing. “Very funny.”
“What?” His brow pinches. “I’m serious. Look at the detail on those horses and how the trees reflect in the frozen lake.”
“It’s not that good,” I say, knowing I was never as good as some of my peers, which is why I went into art history instead of the creative side.
“Nonsense. To say you’re a curator, yet you don’t know talent when you see it.” He stands the A3 board on top of the mantle below Blitzen the deer.
He may as well know the truth. “I’m not a curator.”
“Art handler then, or whatever you want to call yourself.” He straightens the picture, stands back as if admiring my work.
I wrap my fingers around the key at my neck for courage, though I’ve always felt like I can tell Uncle Sawyer anything, I just hope he keeps my secret from Dad. “The closest I got to handling the art was with a feather duster when I cleaned in the evening.” My voice wobbles as confusion mars his features.
“They made you work into the evening?”
“My job started in the evening when the museum closed. I was a cleaner, Sawyer. I worked for a cleaning agency. I never worked for the National Gallery or in the offices or anything.”
His eyebrows pull together. “But your dad said?—”
“I lied.” Shame makes my neck itch, my chest heats as if the guilt is seeping out of me. “I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to prove to him I’m not a little girl anymore, and that he doesn’t need to put his life on hold to take care of me any longer, but the only jobs I got were waiting tables or cleaning.”
“Angel. Why didn’t you say something?” Sawyer steps closer, wrapping me up in his arms.
I inhale the pine scent of him from the woods and the trees, rubbing my face against his t-shirt like a cat rubs themselves in their favourite scent. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Dad was always telling me how proud he was of me. But I hated it.”
He cups my face. “If I’d known that, I would’ve driven down there and brought you home myself. You’ve nothing to prove, not to your dad or anyone.” He dips his head to meet my gaze.“Besides, there’s plenty of cleaning jobs up here. You can start by cleaning up the kitchen.” His lips quirk into a smile.
I swat his chest, but let my hand linger there for a moment. “You know what the worst part is?”
“You suck at cleaning?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Well, yes, but also that I got fired.”
“You were never going to be employee of the month at a cleaning job. Let’s be real. You’ve only been here a few days and your bedroom is resembling a Tracey Emin exhibit.”
“You know of Tracey Emin?” I raise an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
“I know a lot about art, angel.” He holds my shoulders, keeping me at arm’s length. “Now put your artistic skills to good use and decorate this tree. I want to sit down tonight.”
“The festive cheer didn’t last long. You’re back to being grouchy.”
He points his thumb at his chest. “Me? Grouchy?”
My lips lift in the corner, knowing despite his lack of Christmas spirit, he’s doing all this for me. I walk around him to the tree and hang the deer that looks like it’s been in a roadkill accident. “I’m going to need to go to town before Christmas Day.”
“I can get you whatever you need. It’s not safe out there.” He hangs the Victorian bauble on his side of the tree, the snow coming down heavier beyond the large bay window.
“Well, you can’t exactly drive a motorcycle in this.” I search the area for another vehicle, but there’s nothing, only my Suzuki at the side of the cabin.
“I’ll walk. It’s not too far.” He hangs another ornament on the tree. “Just tell me what you need.”
“Are you going to pick out your own Christmas gift?” I look around the tree and raise an eyebrow.
