Page 8 of Mistletoe Misses
My biggest concern is the water leak. I don’t remember what’s above the store, but I know Nana owns the entire building. The side walls are connected to the General Store and boutique on either side, but each roof is separate. She’s probably neglected the old shingles since losing her husband. He took care of all the maintenance both here and at their home. If she’s neglected her pride and joy this way, I doubt I’ll handle seeing her house—my second home—look just as bad and not do something about it.
Then again, all these handyman jobs might be exactly what I need to keep busy while I’m here, especially since I have noidea how Nana plans tofixmy life. I’m not the only one who has let important things fall to the wayside. Mom said she’s been stubborn about doing the necessary work at the shop and won’t accept help. That shit stops now because she won’t be given an option with me.
A door slams inside the room where I first found Nana. I check her reaction, and she doesn’t seem concerned about the noise or the quick footsteps pounding on the wooden floors behind me. I spin to catch them in the act but see no one. Following the noise, I creep along the bookshelves, my big frame making it wobble. I’ll fix that first thing in the morning after I get some tools. A fallen full bookshelf could injure someone or cause more damage.
Hearing some rustling ahead, I move closer and peek past the shelf’s end. It’s not a criminal—at least she doesn’t appear to be one. You never can tell these days. A little girl in green overalls atop a candy cane-striped shirt sits on the floor with a pile of books in her lap. Her baby doll blue eyes, near transparent in the sunlight, acknowledge my presence by giving me a once-over. Straight, blonde hair flows over her shoulders and onto the book pages she’s reading.
“What are you doing?” she asks likeI’mthe intruder.
“I was wondering the same about you.”
“I asked you first.”
I hold back my appreciation for her quick wit until I’ve assessed the situation further. “I’m visiting from out of town.”
“How do you know Nana?” She bats her eyelashes at me, all possessive and smug in her position here.
Who is she to callmyNana that? I gave her the nickname when I was four years old. Only family follows suit. “I rather you answer that question.”
“Do you always evade questions like this?”
Evade? That’s a big word for such a little girl. “How old are you?”
She sighs, clearly determining I’m beneath her intellectually, and I’m beginning to think she’s right. There are some big books decorating the floor, and she’s dancing circles around this conversation. She raises a hand, pops up her forefinger with a white painted nail, and begins ticking off answers to my questions. “Reading. Nana’s been my friend for as long as I can remember. Eight. Your turn.”
The metaphorical hot-potato she tosses over to me catches me off guard. I try to remember thequestions she asked, but like Western movie actors pretending to duel, I’m drawing blanks.
“The answer is yes. Apparently, you evade questions because you keep people at a distance. I bet you’re a cop. No, military.” My face must have registered my astonishment because she corrects herself. “Both, huh? Double trouble in the emotions category. No wonder you’re single.”
Holy shit. I straighten, both offended and downright blown away by her intuition and say-it-like-it-is attitude. She reminds me of my little sister, Kendall.
“What’s your name?”
“Sadie. And who are you?”
“I was getting to it. Damn.” I can’t stop my flustered hand from shoving over my short hair. “I’m Maddox.”
She chuckles. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“You’re not Maddox Henderson.”
My defenses activate like I’m eight years old again—but more caveman-style compared to her level at the same age. I lean on the bookshelves and cross my arms to keep from stomping my foot in protest of the disgust in her tone. “Why not?”
“Nana said you’re sweet.”
“I’m sweet.”
Her eyes roll back into her head before landing on her books again. “Don’t believe you.”
What the—
“How long are you staying in town?” she asks without so much as the courtesy of looking at me.
“Possibly a month, if I can stand it that long.”
Her eyes meet mine and hold there, considering my answer. “Okay,” she says, like she approves but at the same time doesn’t care.
