I shrug, pretending I’m fine, but secretly relieved. “If you’re volunteering, Chief, I’m not stopping you.”
He sets the pie on the counter and moves to the tree, inspecting it like it’s one of his station drills. “You’re missing a leg on the stand.”
“I know.” I hold up a cookbook and wedge it under one side. “DIY queen.”
He chuckles. “Move over.” He kneels, his sleeve brushing my arm as he fixes the stand. He smells like salt and cedar and a hint of sweet apple pie.
When the tree finally stands straight, he plugs in the lights. The whole thing flickers to life, wonky, mismatched, but alive, like the way he makes my heart stutter to life whenever he’s near.
I grin despite myself. “Hey, look at that. It’s almost festive.”
“Almost?” He tilts his head, watching me. “Think your nan would approve?”
“She’d tell me I missed a bit,” I whisper, throat tight.
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Then let’s finish it properly.”
We work in quiet rhythm as we decorate the tree. Him handing me ornaments, me losing focus every time his hand brushes mine. Every touch is a jolt, every laugh grounding. My brain feels less like a swarm of bees and more like a melodic tune that has me floating on air. Sadness no longer consumes me, and I’m seeing more of Nan’s old floral-patterned carpet the more boxes we clear.
“You want to add the star?” he asks, holding up a golden glitter star.
I nod, a smile pushing my cheeks up.
“Here. Stand on this.” He drags a chair from the dining table and positions it next to the tree, then holds my hand as I ungracefully climb onto the seat.
As I stretch to reach the top of the tree, one hand holds the chair steady and his other settles on the dent in my lower back.
His calloused fingers graze my bare skin there where my t-shirt rides up and tingles shoot up my spine, making me dizzy. “That’s perfect, sweetheart.”
My pulse quickens. It’s not the first time today he’s called me sweetheart. I like the way he says it, as if I’m something precious. I turn to get down from the chair and rest both hands on his broad shoulders.
His hands caress the bare skin on my waist, finding their way under my t-shirt as he lifts me effortlessly from the chair and sets my feet on the carpet. I’m not exactly small at five foot six and carrying extra holiday weight accumulated over the last five Christmases, but Flint makes me feel like I weigh nothing at all.
He towers over me with his six-foot-something frame, his hands still on my waist as if he doesn’t want to let go.
I slide my palms down the front of his t-shirt, feeling the wall of muscle there.
His tongue swipes across his bottom lip before he pulls it between his teeth, and I wish it was my lip he was nibbling on. I can’t be the only one feeling this electricity buzzing between us, and I don’t mean the hum of the old Christmas lights.
“Sera.” His voice sounds pained, like being this close to me is torturous.
“Yes?” I look up through my lashes and bite my own lip, my hands still roaming his chest, mapping out every ridge and hard line and committing it to memory.
His fingers dig into the fleshy rolls on my waist.
A moan parts my lips as I imagine what his large hands could do, then my stomach groans as if agreeing.
His lips curl into a smile. “Sounds like someone's ready for pie.” His lips press against my bangs on my forehead before he strides over to the kitchen counter and unwraps the tinfoil from the plate and works his way around Nan’s kitchen, opening drawers as he looks for cutlery.
“Here, let me warm it in the microwave.” I zap the pie for a minute, then place it on the counter and settle onto a stool.
Flint sits opposite and slides me a fork. “I forgot the whipped cream.”
“I prefer it with ice cream anyway.”
“Do you have any?”
“I ate it all. Need to get more when I go grocery shopping.” I move the broken pieces of the pie around the plate.
