Page 21 of Christmas Treasures

“Is that acat?”

“Why do you say it like that?” Charlie asked.

“I thought it might be a medium-sized dog.”

Charlie swatted his shoulder. “Do notfat-shamemy soulmate. Yes, he likes his treats and wet food and tuna from a can, but who am I to deny him such pleasures? I mean, a cat’s life is short. They should have everything they want.”

Max chuckled as he got out of the car, meeting Charlie on the walkway. “Careful. It’s a little slick.”

“I’m not that drunk.” But she took his arm anyway. She fit so nicely next to him.

When they reached the front door, she used a key code to get them inside. The giant cat known as Figaro came running but abruptly stopped at the sight of a stranger. His tail went wide and he started to back away, as if that made him invisible.

“Silly, Figgy, it’s me and my friend. Nothing to be scared of.”

Fig took off running, thumping up the stairs to the second floor.

“Um, he sounds like a human,” Max said.

“Fig’s not exactly light on his feet,” Charlie said. “Abby told me he should drop a few pounds, but like I said, I’m an indulgent cat mom.”

The entry opened into a wide, open-concept living space filled with light and stillness. The floors were pale wood, soft underfoot, and the air smelled of vanilla. To the left, a pale stone fireplace anchored the living room. A low, creamycouch faced it, scattered with muted pillows in dusty greens and grays. Everything about the space was clean and quiet. There were no knickknacks. No clutter. Just calm.

“This house is awesome,” he said as she led him into the kitchen. “Great cooking space.”

“I enjoy it a lot.” Charlie glanced over her shoulder as she pulled open the back door. “Thanks. Come on, I’ll show you my special place.”

The greenhouse glowed softly in the dark, its frame a silhouette of black metal and glass against the velvet night sky. From the outside, it looked like something out of a fairy tale—quiet, contained, a world all its own.

Charlie unlocked the door and stepped inside. Max followed, and immediately, scents of warm soil and ripening tomatoes hit him. The air was humid in the best way, soothing and healing all at once.

She flipped on the lights, and a row of hanging pendants blinked to life, allowing him to see better. Herbs lined the wooden benches in neat clay pots, their leaves dewy and reaching. He noted chives, oregano, multiple varieties of basil. Lettuce greens and winter vegetables filled planter beds near the back, their tender leaves bright against the darker earth.

“It’s so organized.” Everything had a place. Tools hung precisely on the wall. A worn wooden stool sat near a tall row of trellised tomatoes, and beside it—a garden journal, thick with pages, half-covered in sketches and notes in Charlie’s neat hand.

“I’m a bit of a neat freak. And I hate clutter,” Charlie said.

When he’d first been diagnosed with ADHD in middle school, the therapist had encouraged him to keep his places tidy and organized to give him a fighting chance against the ping-pong nature of his thoughts. This space and the house were exactly that.

“Honestly, this is beyond great,” Max said. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”

“I do. Although, I have to confess—I have a helper. A retired guy just up the hill. He comes by when I’m at work to weed and make sure my sprinklers and watering systems are working.”

“You both did a great job.”

“I come out here when I can’t sleep.” She brushed her fingers over a line of basil. “Or if something’s worrying me.”

“I get it.” He turned slowly to take the place in one more time, before stopping to gaze at Charlie standing under the light.

“Do you want to take anything home?” Charlie asked. “I could cut you some herbs.”

She stepped off the path between planter beds to reach for something on a high shelf. He turned just in time to see her foot catch on the edge of a cedar planting box.

She pitched forward, and Max caught her on instinct. His arms wrapped around her before either of them could process what was happening.

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Her hands were pressed flat against his chest, her face just inches from his, wide eyes locked on his mouth.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

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