Keep telling yourself that.
Chapter Three
SERA
The bungalow smells of cinnamon from the flickering candle on the windowsill, fighting with Nan’s lavender furniture polish, as if Nan’s hugs still linger in the air.
With a sigh, I drop onto the wool rug that Nan and I braided together when I was young. The place is a mess, no thanks to me dragging every box of Christmas decorations from the loft.
Every surface is covered with half-empty boxes, strings of lights, baubles, tinsel that’s somehow stuck to my sock. I can’t seem to finish one thing before starting another. I only wanted to find the snow globe with our photograph inside, then it was side quest after side quest of putting up Christmas decorations until I’m too overwhelmed to do anything at all.
Nan used to make this all look easy. She’d hum along to Bing Crosby, untangle the lights with saintlike patience. I’ve been sitting here for two hours, and all I’ve managed to do is break a bauble and forget where I put my scissors.
The tree leans awkwardly in the corner, half dressed, and haggard like it’s as tired as I am. My brain’s a mess of listsand noise. Finish the lights, wipe the counters, call the electric company, stop crying.
I flop back on the rug and stare up at the ceiling. The fairy lights buzz softly, one flickering as if it’s mocking me. I should eat. My stomach grumbles at the memory of pie that I missed out on at Flint’s.
Instead, I just lie here.
A knock at the door makes me flinch. My heart jumps, and for a second I consider pretending I’m not home. Another knock follows, firmer this time. Too loud.
I drag myself up, wipe the tears from my face as I walk down the hall, wondering who’s knocking at seven in the evening on Thanksgiving. I unlock the door. If it’s Mason, I swear?—
Flint Sparks stands there, looking like he stepped out of a Christmas card for rugged men who own axes, only he’s holding a foil-covered plate, the aroma of apples blowing in on the wind.
I blink, not believing my own eyes. It’s as if someone up there heard my prayers for pie.
“You ran out before dessert,” he says, that deep voice doing stupid things to my heartbeat. Someone has definitely heard my prayers.
“You mean there’s actually dessert left after Mason?” I huff and blink again. “You deliver pie now?”
He smirks lazily. “Only to ungrateful dinner guests, apparently.”
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Just wish you’d said you were coming.” I fiddle with the sleeve of my cardigan, hoping he doesn’t see the trail of Christmas decs haphazardly scattered down the hall. It’s likeWho-ville threw up in my living room right now. I can’t possibly let him see the chaos I’ve created.
My cheeks heat, another wave of tears threatens to spill out. My bottom lip trembles.
Flint runs a calloused thumb along my quivering lip. “Have you been crying?”
“It’s just that time, you know.” I shrug and wipe my sniffle on the sleeve of my cardigan.
“Time of the month?” Flint’s brow furrows.
A small huff of laughter escapes my lips. If only it were that simple. “That time of year. I miss Nan.”
“Sweetheart.” Flint wraps one arm around me, hauling me to his chest. His large hand slides up my back, knuckles grazing my spine, while his other balances the plate of pie.
The warmth that creeps up my neck makes me feel all fuzzy and dizzy. The man’s like an inferno, heat radiating from him as if he’s my personal woodburning stove. His fingers tangle in my hair, and when I look up at him, part my lips, I swear he’s going to kiss me. I want him to. Need him to.
I hold his gaze for a beat too long before he clears his throat. “You gonna invite me in then? This pie won’t eat itself.”
I snap my eyes from his and step back. “Er, yeah.” I step on a fake tree branch as I pad through the hallway. “Sorry. It’s a bit of a mess in here.”
He peers past me and gives a low whistle. “You decorating or moving house?”
I laugh, pushing a pile of tangled tinsel aside. “Nan always put the tree up on Thanksgiving, so I thought I’d… I don’t know. Keep the tradition.”
He steps in, carefully avoiding a rogue bauble. “Good thing I turned up before this turns into a safety hazard. Half these lights look ready to short out.”
