Page 22 of Tee the Season
“What?”
“When you left after the wedding.” I should shut up. Should let it go. But his honesty pulls out mine. “I noticed you were gone.”
He stares at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. As if he’s trying to translate my words into something that makes sense in his carefully ordered world.
“And I heard you haven’t slept with anyone since then.”
His jaw clenches, and his expression shifts into something I can’t read. “We should get this downstairs. Before Aunt Mae worries.”
I nod, grateful and disappointed in equal measure, and start back toward the ladder. But as we navigate the cramped space, me leading and him following with the box, I catch him watching me in the weak light.
And I realize with sudden, uncomfortable clarity we’re both lying when we say we’re satisfied with how things are.
We just haven’t figured out what to do about it yet.
Chapter eleven
Rory
Afire crackles in the brick hearth of the old house. Framed photos line the mantel, mixed in with holiday decorations. And Aunt Mae’s directing operations from her seat on the couch, a walker parked within reach.
“Careful with the corner pieces,” she says, pointing toward the edge of the village we’re setting up on a side table. “The church steeple is delicate.”
I cradle the ceramic piece, extra attentive to my hold. “Got it.”
Tabitha lifts the general store with careful hands, holding it up to the light from the fire. “The church goes in the back left. Then the general store next to it.”
“You’ve done this before,” I observe, setting down the piece before unwrapping a tiny bakery.
“Every year since I was seven.” She reaches for the bakery, and our fingers tangle. Neither of us pulls back immediately.
From her chair, Aunt Mae makes a small noise that sounds like a hum of approval. “That’s it, dear. Just like always.”
“Where does this one go?” I hold up a bookstore.
Tabitha clears her throat. “Front right. Next to the lamppost.”
We work carefully, her directing and me following the instructions. The space forces us close. Every time she stretches to position a building in the back, I’m aware of the curve of her waist. When she leans across to adjust the town square, her hair brushes my jaw.
“The skating pond goes there,” she murmurs, so close her breath warms my neck. “And be careful with the skaters. They’re loose.”
My hand is steady as I set down the tiny figures.
“What are you going to do aboutStorytime with Santatomorrow?” Aunt Mae asks, her voice careful. “With the storm and all.”
Tabitha’s hand stills on the schoolhouse she’s unwrapping. “I’m going to cancel it. Probably should have sent out the notice this morning.”
The finality in her voice makes me look up.
“Mr. Patterson can barely walk with his cane,” she continues, with a sigh. “I can’t ask him to trudge through snowdrifts. Even after the storm passes.”
“What if you waited until after Christmas?” Aunt Mae asks.
Tabitha shakes her head. “You know it wouldn’t be the same.”
Aunt Mae murmurs in agreement. “The magic is in the timing.”
“What’sStorytime with Santa?” I ask.
