Page 13 of Holly Ever After

I can’t tell him any of that so instead I shake my head, ignore the heat crawling up my neck, and get back to work.

It’s another hour of solid writing before a question comes up in my story, so I dive straight to the source. I steeple my gloved fingers, eyeing Sean before I ask, “Why did you become a carpenter?”

I think he grunts at me.

“Seriously, Sean.”

He keeps going with his work. “I like it.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“That’s it?” He is useless for this backstory in my book. “There has to be more.”

“Jesus was a carpenter. I felt inspired. Merry Christmas.”

I don’t even think he’s religious.

“Sean?” I smile sweetly and try to bat my lashes.

When he finally looks at me, he cocks a brow. “You sick?”

I throw my head back with a groan. “There has to be a genuine reason. I know you've always been good with this sort of thing but—”

Sean cuts me off, finally directing his full attention toward me. “Is that a compliment, Holly Winters?”

“Maybe,” I reply, my voice laced with a mix of annoyance and coaxing. “You gonna answer my question if it is?”

His eyes narrow to slits, studying me intently, causing an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach. “Seriously, have you got a fever?”

“Sean!” I cry out, my patience threadbare.

He’s standing there, his stance solid and unmoving, arms crossed over his chest, hammer hanging loosely from his hand, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—analyzing every inch of my face.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of curiosity.

I throw my hands out, still shivering, “Because we're probably going to die here, and I just want to know before I freeze to death!”

He looks lost in thought for a minute, returning to his work, his movements meticulous and calculated. I don’t think he’ll answer, the silence stretches thin, but then his voice breaks through, softer, more intimate.

“After my father left, Mom and I... we didn't have much.” He looks at me then, eyes a medley of old wounds and reluctant vulnerability. “But you already know that part.”

He proceeds, every word heavy with memories. “One Christmas, she... she couldn’t get out of bed for weeks. She was just... lost in this dark place.” His voice tightens. “So, I started making decorations, thinking maybe they’d cheer her up. I carved nearly every decoration on the tree from pieces of wood.”

A smile pulls at the corners of my lips, involuntary but genuine. I remember that. Sean gave everyone their own decorations that he made himself as presents that year. I was eleven; Sean couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

His words drip with sarcasm, a smirk playing at his lips. “Now, I think you, of all people, know just about everything there is to know about me. Anything missing you'd like me to enlighten you about?”

Maybe it’s the remnants of the romance I’m weaving on my laptop, or maybe it’s a sudden lapse in judgment, possibly a brain injury, but before I can censor myself, the words tumble out, unbidden. “Have you ever been in love?”

Even he seems taken aback by the question, his eyes widening a fraction before he schools his features into a semblance of impassivity, and he just stares and stares.

Oh, I want to retract the words and suck them right back into my big mouth.

“Sure,” he finally mutters, severing the eye contact to immerse himself back in his work.

“With who?”

Shut up, Holly.

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