Page 10 of All I Want for Christmas

“I guess.” He found his tape, then stood, running the roll around in his hands. “Did you run out of gas again?”

“No.” She laughed, obviously amused at herself. “I like walking around town this time of day. As a matter of fact, I was heading down to your sister’s. She’s a few doors down, right?”

His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the idea of the woman he was spending too much time thinking about hanging out with his sister. “Yeah, that’s right. Why?”

“Why?” Her attention had been focused on his hands. There was something about them. Hard, callused. Big. She felt a quick and very pleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach. “Why what?”

“Why are you going to Mira’s?”

“Oh. I have some sheet music I thought Kim would like.”

“Is that right?” He leaned on the truck, measuring her. Her smile was entirely too friendly, he decided. Entirely too attractive. “Is it part of your job description to make house calls with sheet music?”

“It’s part of the fun.” Her hair ruffled in the light breeze. She scooped it back. “No job’s worth the effort or the headaches if you don’t have some fun.” She looked back at the house. “You have fun, don’t you? Taking something and making it yours?”

He started to say something snide, then realized she’d put her finger right on the heart of it. “Yeah. It doesn’t always seem like fun when you’re tearing out ceilings and having insulation raining down on your head.” He smiled a little. “But it is.”

“Are you going to let me see?” She tilted her head. “Or are you like a temperamental artist, not willing to show his work until the final brushstroke?”

“There’s not much to see.” Then he shrugged. “Sure, you can come in if you want.”

“Thanks.” She started up the walk, glanced over her shoulder when he stayed by the truck. “Aren’t you going to give me a tour?”

He moved his shoulders again, and joined her.

“Did you do the trim on my apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s beautiful work. Looks like cherry.”

He frowned, surprised. “It is cherry.”

“I like the rounded edges. They soften everything. Do you get a decorator in for the colors or pick them out yourself?”

“I pick them.” He opened the door for her. “Is there a problem?”

“No. I really love the color scheme in the kitchen, the slate blue counters, the mauve floor. Oh, what fabulous stairs.” She hurried across the unfinished living area to the staircase.

Mac had worked hard and long on it, tearing out the old and replacing it with dark chestnut, curving and widening the landing at the bottom so that it flowed out into the living space.

It was, undeniably, his current pride and joy.

“Did you build these?” she murmured, running a hand over the curve of the railing.

“The old ones were broken, dry-rotted. Had to go.”

“I have to try them.” She dashed up, turning back at the top to grin at him. “No creaks. Good workmanship, but not very sentimental.”

“Sentimental?”

“You know, the way you look back on home, how you snuck downstairs as a kid and knew just which steps to avoid because they’d creak and wake up Mom.”

All at once he was having trouble with his breathing. “They’re chestnut,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.

“Whatever, they’re beautiful. Whoever lives here has to have kids.”

His mouth was dry, unbearably. “Why?”

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