Page 62 of About Last Christmas
“It is. But I don’t strength train for myself. I did it all for Gran.” I pick at a fuzz on my sleeve. I never told anyone this, not even Tilly. “A few years back, Gran started to lose her mobility. There’d be times when she couldn’t get out of the bathtub or stand up from her chair. Pap couldn’t lift her, so it had to be me. Which meant I needed to get stronger.” In more ways than one. Ihad to build up my muscles, butalso my emotions. It was a time for Greta Carlton to toughen up.
He sits beside me. It’s not a large bench. One of his thighs is against mine. I don’t hate it. But I do feel uncomfortable under the weight of his stare.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You.” He gives a tender smile. “I don’t know anyone more selfless than you.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“What about now?”
I scowl. “What do you mean?”
His gaze slides to my exposed neck, then back up. “You still work out.”
I get what he’s saying. Since Gran’s passed, there’s no need to keep up with the vigorous routine.
“Why keep lifting if you hate it?”
The answer springs to my mind so quickly that I clamp my lips together to keep from spewing it. Word vomiting is a thing. While I can’t tell him the entire reason, I can offer a partial truth. “I work alone at the store. I lift and move heavy stuff all the time.”
“I’m here, you know. If you need help.”
Though for how long? I wisely keep that to myself and mutter a “thank you.”
He looks like he’s about to say more, but a buzzer sounds. “That will be the gate. Our food’s here.”
Leo takes care of everything, and I follow him into the large kitchen where he sets two huge bags of food on the counter.
“I hope you’re hungry. I picked pretty much everything off the steakhouse menu.” He gives a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know what you liked.”
“You could’ve asked.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you don’t eat, you and I can use for meals this week.”
Yes, because I always have filet mignon on my lunch break. But it’s a sweet gesture. He unloads the bags, then hands me a plate. His selection is far better than the food from the firefighters’ gala. My taste buds applaud him. Once our dishes are full and we get our drinks, Leo suggests we eat in the living room by the fire.
“The dining hall’s always cold,” is all he says before leading me to the family room. This space is more relaxed, making me suspect this is where Leo spends a lot of his time. The giant TV between two bookcases is a pretty good hint.
Leo sets his food down on the coffee table and carefully pulls it farther from the couch. He plops down on the rug beside the table—as if he’s done this a hundred times—and pats the space next to him. “It’s easier to sit on the floor than balance a plate on your lap on the sofa.”
I appreciate his logic and join him. Although I do inspect the coffee table first to ensure it’s not a Chippendale or any other brand worth an entire year’s salary.
While we eat, I update him on the Vallerton search and explain the PastPort fiasco, which he finds hilarious.
“It hurts to think someone destroyed those beautiful pieces.” I press a hand over my heart, as if rubbing a physical ache. “I’ll check in again with my contacts, but I keep hitting dead ends.”
He downs the rest of his Coke. “It’s all good. I’m sure something will come up.”
I hate to dash his optimism, so I only nod.
“Now what about the letters?”
I grimace at the folder on the table. “Let’s hope we can find ‘the one’ tonight.” I read through more sob stories, and my heart’s both torn and wary. It’s a conflicting task. You want tobelieve these people, but it’s tough to tell if they’re being honest. I blow out a breath. “How’s it going with you?”
“I like this one.” Leo hands me a letter.
I quickly scan it. A woman is asking for help on behalf of her neighbor, whose husband was injured at work. The couple is trying to adjust to their new circumstances. It doesn’t exactly specify the need, but I assume it’s financial. “Why this one?”
