Page 20 of Tee the Season
“So,” Aunt Mae says, diving right in as I knew she would. “Tabitha tells me you have a niece who makes you read chapter books.”
Rory shoots me a look that’s half-amused. “Sophie. She’s eight.”
“What’s she reading now?”
“The Penderwicks.” He accepts the mug I slide across the table, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “We just finished the third book. She’s got opinions about which sister is best.”
Aunt Mae nods approvingly. “Smart girl. And you? Do you read?”
“When I can. Mostly on planes.” He wraps both hands around the mug as if he’s trying to absorb its heat. “Thrillers, usually. Sometimes, biographies.”
“Not romance, then.” There’s a knowing glint in Aunt Mae’s eyes that makes me want to sink through the floor.
“Not typically, no.” But he’s looking at me when he says it, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Aunt Mae catches the look, and her smile widens. “Well. You’re missing out. Some of the best stories are about people figuring out what they really want. In life and in love.” She takesanother sip of tea. “But, I just remembered, would you two be dears and fetch something from my attic?”
“Of course,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “What do you need?”
“The holiday village display. You know, the ceramic one, in the box markedChristmas - Fragile.”
Rory stands. “Happy to help.”
Chapter ten
Tabitha
We head upstairs to the second floor, where the attic access is tucked in the hallway ceiling. I reach for the cord, but Rory’s already there, his height giving him the advantage. He pulls, and the ladder unfolds with a groan of old hinges.
He stares at it as if it’s alien technology. “Is that…safe?”
“It’s a pull-down attic ladder. You’ve never seen one?”
“I live in a three-story apartment building without an attic in sight.” He prods one rung experimentally. “This seems like a death trap.”
“It’s been here since the fifties. It’s fine.” I climb, very aware of him watching from below. “Just don’t put your full weight on the third rung. It’s a little loose.”
“The third—Tabitha!”
“Don’t be dramatic.” But I’m smiling as I pull myself up into the attic, the familiar scent of dust and old cardboard washing over me. A single bulb casts a weak light over the cramped space, barely enough to see by.
Rory’s head appears through the opening, and I offer him a hand up. He takes it, his palm still cold from shoveling, andhauls himself through with an athletic grace that makes my stomach flutter.
Then he straightens—or tries to. The ceiling’s too low, forcing him to duck. “Jesus. Is this up to code?”
“I don’t think codes were really a thing back then.” I weave through the maze of boxes and old furniture, the space so narrow we have to move single file. “The Christmas boxes are back here.”
He follows, his presence a solid warmth at my back. Every time I stop to check a label, he nearly runs into me. The third time it happens, his hands come to my waist to steady us both, and neither of us moves for a beat too long.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound sorry. His thumbs press against my hipbones through my sweater.
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “Just…cramped up here.”
“I noticed.” But he steps back, giving me space I don’t want.
I force myself to focus on the boxes. Most are labeled in Aunt Mae’s neat handwriting:Summer Clothes,Photos 1960-1970,Quilting Fabric. A lifetime in this house, packed carefully away.
“She’s lived her whole life here?” Rory asks as if he’s reading my thoughts.
