Page 9 of Tied Up In Tinsel
I smirked.
The woman from the bar last night was now the woman I’d be living with, at least through the holiday season—the same one whose daughter I’d be looking after, too.
“You gave me your address,” I said, my voice steady despite the fact that the cold was cutting through my flannel and straight into my bones. My arms crossed instinctively, trying to trap some heat against my chest. The air here wasn’t just cold, it was small-town-mountain-town cold. Sharp. Icy. The kind that made your nostrils stick together when you breathed in too deep.
I really hoped she’d invite me in before I froze into a statue on her porch. No way was I going to let her see me shiver, though. I had a reputation to uphold, even if it was only in my own head.
How she could stand there in the doorway looking unfazed in nothing but a thin cream sweater and black leggings was beyond me. Her auburn hair was put into a messy ponytail, a few wisps rebelliously curling at her temples. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, catching the soft sunlight. Her cheeks were flushed pink—not from blush, but from the bite of winter—and even the tip of her button nose was tinged red. She was… something. The kind of something you notice and keep noticing, even when you tell yourself not to.
“I don’t remember giving you my address last night,” she said sharply, leaning out just enough to glance left and right, as though she was making sure the whole neighborhood wasn’t watching.
Before I could answer, she grabbed a fistful of my flannel and yanked me inside. The door slammed shut behind us, sealing out the frigid air.
“You can’t just show up here,” she said, voice pitched low but urgent. “I have a daughter, and you’re lucky she isn’t home right now. If she were?—”
Annie broke off, letting out a disbelieving laugh as she shook her head. “She would be eating this up right now.”
“I know you have a daughter,” I said evenly. “That’s why I’m here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You sicko!”
Before I could explain, she lunged, smacking me square in the chest.
“She’s seven, you buffoon!”
“Jesus!” I caught her wrists mid-swing, half-laughing, half-trying not to get another jab to the ribs. “Calm down. I’m Brooks.”
She froze. The fight drained out of her shoulders. Her jaw slackened as her gaze ran over me—less assessing, more trying to reconcile a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. In her flurry, strands of hair had slipped free from her bun, falling in loose curves around her face.
“You’re Brooks?” she said slowly, as if saying it out loud might help her make sense of it.
“That’s me,” I said, loosening my grip on her wrists. “Here to be the nanny.”
Her eyes swept me from my snow-dusted cowboy boots up to the brim of my hat, and back again. It was a slow, deliberate path—one I felt all the way down to my spine.
“I know you’re undressing me in your head,” I said lightly, “but maybe we should wait until after I meet Ruby.”
She huffed and crossed her arms. “I am not.”
“Are too.”
“I thought you were a woman,” she blurted.
I raised a brow, glancing down at myself. “Really? Even after that stare-down just now? Pretty sure no one’s ever confused me for a woman before.”
“I meant through email,” she shot back, her voice tight. “Your name. Brooks, it sounded… female.”
“Funny,” I said. “Guess I should start putting ‘rugged manly man’ in my signature line to avoid confusion.”
She muttered something under her breath about not being able to believe this and took a step back. “I have so many questions.”
“Fire away.”
“Follow me first.”
She spun on her heel and strode toward the kitchen. I lingered a second, glancing at the melting snow clinging to my boots, then bent down to tug them off. They landed by the front door with a soft thud, snow pooling on the mat beneath them.
Her house was small and warm, the kind of cozy that felt instantly lived in—scents of cinnamon and coffee drifting in from the kitchen. A small Christmas tree glowed in the corner of the living room, strung with mismatched ornaments, some clearly hand-painted by small, messy hands. The walls were dotted with framed snapshots—sunlit summer days, snowy sled rides, a little girl with a gap-toothed grin holding up a gingerbread house. That must be Ruby.
