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“Sounds good,” Henry said, settling into one of the armchairs. “Take your time.”
Nicole hurried up the stairs to gather the pieces she’d finished, pausing for a moment in front of the mirror to take stock of her reflection as she shrugged off her heavy coat. She was wearing much simpler clothes than when she’d first started the job—fleece-lined leggings and a long black turtleneck sweater today—and she kicked off her work boots, swapping them for fresh cashmere socks and slippers.
Her hair was a bit of a mess, and she tugged it out of the ponytail it was in, running her fingers through it in an effort to get the bend from the hair tie out of it. Before she could think too much about it, she grabbed the perfume from the table next to the mirror, a vanilla and jasmine scent that she’d bought on a whim the weekend before coming to Fir Tree Grove. She’d never been much of a perfume person before, but she’d thought why not? She was starting over, after all, so she should try something new.
She dabbed a bit on her wrists and neck, then caught herself and laughed softly. What was she doing? This was Henry, her boss, and maybe her friend. They were just looking at her knitting projects. There was no reason to be primping in front of the mirror like a teenager getting ready for a date.
Except that moment on the ladder had felt like something. And the way her heart had raced after suggested that maybe she wanted it to be something.
She gathered up her creations, the scarves and beanies and gloves, as well as her pride and joy, a gorgeous shawl in tones of creams and browns with a delicate lace border. She was surprised by how nervous she suddenly felt, how much she wanted Henry to like them, to see the care and skill she’d put into each piece.
Taking a deep breath, she headed back downstairs, her arms full of soft, colorful wool.
When she re-entered the living room, she was pleasantly surprised to see that Henry had taken the liberty of making them hot chocolate. Two steaming mugs sat on the small table between the armchairs, topped with generous swirls of whipped cream.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Henry said, gesturing to the mugs. “I asked Christopher if I could raid the kitchen, and he was more than happy to oblige. I figured we could use something warm after being out in the cold.”
Nicole felt a smile spread across her face as she carefully arranged her knitted items on the coffee table. “You made us hot chocolate?”
“I had to do something to impress you,” Henry said, and there was something in his tone—something warm and slightly teasing—that made Nicole’s pulse quicken.
She looked up from the scarves she was arranging, her heart suddenly fluttering. “Are you trying to impress me?”
Henry held her gaze, an almost sheepish smile on his lips for a moment before he admitted, “I might be.”
Nicole felt heat rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fireplace. Before she could respond, Henry continued, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Besides, you wouldn’t have put on that delicious-smelling perfume when you went upstairs if you weren’t trying to get my attention, now would you?”
Nicole felt herself blush even deeper. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She was saved from having to come up with a witty reply by movement outside the window.
Through the glass, Nicole noticed a man methodically stacking firewood by the B&B’s side entrance, working efficiently and quickly. “Who’s that?” she asked, grateful for the distraction.
Henry glanced out the window and chuckled. “That’s Nolan McCoy. He’s the town’s mail carrier, but he also runs a firewood business on the side. He keeps Christopher supplied throughout the winter.”
“He looks so serious,” Nicole observed, watching as Nolan worked. He had a slight frown on his face, and he certainly didn’t seem to have the same overwhelming cheer that everyone else in the town tended to have this time of year.
Henry’s chuckle turned into a full laugh. “Nolan is affectionately known as the town’s ‘Grinch,’ though he’s actually a good guy. He just doesn’t embrace the holiday spirit the way the rest of Fir Tree Grove does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a smile during December. Last year, someone tried to get him to wear a Santa hat while delivering the mail, and I thought he might actually quit on the spot.”
They watched Nolan for another moment, then Henry turned his attention back to the array of knitted items spread across the coffee table. His expression shifted from amused to genuinely impressed.
“Nicole,” he said softly, reaching out to touch one of the infinity scarves. “These are incredible. I mean it—this is really beautiful work.”
Nicole felt a warm glow of pride in her chest. She’d been hoping for a positive reaction, but the awe in Henry’s voice was more than she’d expected. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” Henry said, examining the cable-knit beanie with its intricate pattern. “Nicole, you could sell these anywhere. They’re professional quality.”
He picked up the cream-colored shawl, letting it unfold across his lap. The lace border caught the firelight, and Nicole held her breath as he studied it. It was the piece she was most proud of.
“This is stunning,” Henry said, handling it carefully. “Did you design this yourself?”
Nicole nodded, suddenly shy. “I combined a few different patterns and modified them to work together. I wanted something elegant but also warm and practical. Something that could be dressed up or down.”
Henry looked up at her, and the admiration in his eyes made her heart skip a beat. “You have a real gift for this, Nicole. Have you thought about what you’re going to do with these pieces? Just sell them at the holiday market?”
She swallowed hard. She had bigger dreams than that, but she’d always pushed them aside over the years. She was at that age where her life was set, she’d told herself. She’d made her choices, and she’d always been happy with them. Folks didn’t just… start over at this point in their lives.
Except she had. She was. And maybe now was the time to say what she’d been thinking out loud, to someone who hadn’t shot down a single idea of hers, even when she was climbing a ladder in heels and a pencil skirt.
