Page 8 of Holly Ever After

She throws her head back with a groan and walks away, muttering, “Oh, for fuck's sake.”

There’s that pounding again, reminding me it never really left. Each beat is more bruising than the last.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I try to suffocate it, swallow it down, take a fire extinguisher to it and smother it but nothing works. Especially when she looks over her shoulder at me, that same scowl still on her face.

“You coming in? Or are you going let us both freeze to death?”

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Fuck.

Why did she have to move back? Why did she have to move back looking like that?

I was doing fine.

Now? Well now I’m stuck renovating this cottage for the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Five

I'm measuring and cutting pieces of crown molding for the living room. The miter saw roars to life, drowning out whatever Christmas carol is emanating from Holly's phone. Deck the Halls maybe? Or Jingle Bell Rock? Doesn't matter; they all blend together after a while.

As I align the saw with my pencil mark, I can feel her gaze drilling into me from across the room. It's distracting as hell. You'd think she was watching a bomb technician at work.

Finally, I set down the saw and remove my safety goggles. “You know, you're supposed to look away when people are working with power tools. Ever heard of safety first?”

She shrugs, paintbrush in hand, obviously trying her best to refurbish an old bookshelf that's seen better days. “I am being safe. It's you who's wielding that thing like it's Excalibur.”

“Listen, Squirt. I've got this under control. Why don't you focus on making that bookshelf less of an eyesore and let me work my magic here?”

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Quit calling me Squirt, and maybe, just maybe, I'll consider it.”

“Quit staring. I'm good at my job. You don't have to supervise.”

“Who says I was supervising? Maybe I was just admiring your... technique.”

“My technique, huh?”

“Yeah, like, hownotto do things.”

“Ouch. You really know how to wound a man's pride.”

She grins, pleased with herself. “It's a gift.”

Her phone changes tune, shifting to another holiday song.

“Enough chit-chat. I have molding to cut, and you have a bookshelf to... whatever you're doing to it.”

“Improving it,” she says defiantly.

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