Page 24 of Not In The Christmas Plan
Of course, he fixes in two minutes what I’ve been battling for half an hour. His long arms loop the cord neatly and evenly, his motions quick and sure.
He steps back, admiring his work with a self-satisfied—bordering on smug—grin.
I narrow my eyes. “I could have done that if I had the wingspan of a pterodactyl. You basketball players and your long arms.”
His eyes tighten slightly, and he picks up another bundle of lights. “I’ll get these strung up on the roof.”
Watching him walk away so abruptly is not a good feeling and I can’t help but mentally kick myself for that little basketball comment. I hadn’t meant to poke at his woundand know I should apologize. But he moves quickly and is already up the ladder, so I’ll shelve that apology for later.
For now, one more pillar needs to be decorated and since I hurt my handyman’s feelings, I’ll have to do it myself. I hold in a silent sob and pick up another strand of lights.
When I’m done, my pillar looks noticeably different from Grant’s, and not in a good way. I cast him a pitiful look, but my stomach immediately drops when I see that he’s all the way on the roof, lying flat while hanging lights below. Dad never did it that way. He always stuck to the ladder.
I don’t know if what Grant is doing is safe, but I refrain from yelling out so I don’t startle him.
“Lookin’ good!” Ms. Thomas calls from across the street.
I turn to see her standing by her car in her fur coat and kitten heels, shooting us a thumbs up. I wave but before I can turn back to Grant, she calls out, “Eve dear, look at these!”
She holds some woven socks from a bag. “I got them from the Christmas market. I’m about to turn on some hot chocolate and get nice and cozy.”
That sounds delightful and makes me long to visit the market myself, though I know I won’t.
I open my mouth to compliment Ms. Thomas on her style and activity of the evening when a strong gust of wind blows my hood back. Ms. Thomas’s gaze darts toward the roof, and her eyes go wide.
I whip around just in time to see Grant roll, then drop like a sack of coal into the yard.
“Grant!”
My heart seizes as I sprint to the side of the house. He’s face up in the grass, eyes closed.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” I drop to my knees with my hands hovering helplessly above him as I scan for anything that could be broken. “I’m going to call the ambulance.” My fingers scramble for my phone, but they’re shaking so bad it slips and lands right on his chest.
“Ow,” he groans.
“You’re alive!” The surge of relief makes me dizzy.
His eyes slowly crack open, heavy with pain but locked on me.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” I tell him, my voice cracking. “How could you think going on a roof on a windy day was a good idea? Do you have any idea—”
His lips crash into mine.
For a heartbeat I freeze, too stunned to process that he’s actually kissing me. But then his hand cups the back of my head, anchoring me to him, and I melt.
My eyes flutter shut and I kiss him back, all that control I’ve been clinging to slips right through my fingers.
My hand finds his cheek, stroking his skin. It’s cool beneath my palm, but his lips are hot and soft and taste faintly of the hot cocoa—of course this man made some without offering me any.
How dare he.
I lick his bottom lip, chasing every drop of sweetness, and am startled to realize it’s not the cocoa that’s sweet.It’s him. And I am utterly lost in him. I don’t care about the howling wind or the cold ground beneath my knees. This addictive kiss drowns out all else.
He squeezes the nape of my neck, fingers tugging my roots. I sigh into his mouth. He breathes into mine.
“Honey, are you okay—oh!”
Ms. Thomas’s voice brings everything to a screeching halt. I gasp for air, looking for the good sense that left me when Grant’s lips touched mine.
