Page 26 of There's Only One Sleigh
Whitney
Penny’s eyes widen when I walk into the kitchen the next morning, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
“It’s Casual Tuesday,” I say, and she chuckles.
I’m wearing black leggings with a long sleeveless tunic over them. And I’m wearing a flannel shirt unbuttoned over that. After dealing with the office snafu yesterday afternoon, I went back to the General Store and bought myself warm socks and this red plaid flannel shirt, along with my coffee.
I guess itisconvenient to find everything you need in one store.
“There will be painting involved,” I add.
“Ah, Santa’s sleigh. I’ve heard a lot about it because it’s in the event barn with the inn’s float, which means the library’s float—which Erin always builds here—is in the garage. And it’s Randy’s spot in the garage that got bumped.”
“Rob told me the sleigh got evicted from its usual storage by a project car. He has to park his SUV in his garage so it’s always cleared off in an emergency. And it sounds like it can’t live here.”
Penny shrugged. “Somebody suggested putting up a storage shed behind the town barn, but nobody wants to pay for it.”
I make a mental note to add it to theCharming Lakelist Donovan asked me to keep. Problems stemming from a lack of funding in his adopted community have a way of quietly getting solved.
I’ve just finished my second cup of coffee—and a lovely cinnamon roll I nicked from Penny—when Rob’s SUV pulls in. I shove my feet into my boots and meet him in the driveway, where he hands me one of the cups he brought from the General Store.
“Flannel looks good on you,” he says, giving me a suggestive lift of one eyebrow that makes me blush.
“I try not to paint sleighs wearing anything dry clean only, as a rule.”
After he unlocks the side door into the barn and reaches in to flip the light switch before stepping back to let me in, I have to admit the sleigh is impressive. Colorful and huge, like one of the fantastical sleighs from old children’s book illustrations, it sits on a low trailer.
“Once it’s in place, there’s a skirt that goes around the bottom of the trailer, and wooden steps so the kids can get up there,” he explains. “Most of the touch-ups are on this side, where everybody grabs to climb in, and their boots hit the side. Wear and tear type stuff.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “Right after I drink a little more of this coffee.”
We’ve done the bigger patches and are barely an hour into the finer details—him working on the green holly leaves while I touch up the gold scrollwork—when his radio squawks and he has to go.
“Sorry. Hazard of the job. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll keep working on it. I don’t mind doing it alone.”
“Those brushes are expensive. To clean them, you have to?—”
I wave my hand toward the door. “I’ll watch a YouTube video. Go.”
When he finally returns, four hours later, I’ve finished cleaning the brushes to the best of my ability. And I think the sleigh touching-up is complete, which is good because he looks utterly exhausted, especially around the eyes.
He’s also freshly showered, which probably means the call was an actual fire and not a medical call or an accident. Being careful not to touch the outside I’d touched up, he climbs up on the sleigh and sinks onto the bench seat next to me with a sigh of relief. I don’t blame him. It’s more like a leather sofa than a bench seat.
“Was it bad?” I ask quietly.
“Christmas tree fire. Old light strings.” He gives me half a smile. “But it could have been worse. The family can stay with the grandparents and the living room was the only damage. The presents were already under the tree, though.”
He pulls out a slip of paper and hands it to me. I scan the list of items, including a gaming system the parents had probably saved up for months to buy. After snapping a picture of the list and emailing it to myself so it’ll be waiting when we’re done painting, I tuck it in the pocket of my flannel shirt. I don’t even need to run this purchase by my boss because I know his answer. “I can make these reappear.”
“You would totally rock that elf costume,” he teases, making me laugh.
“Come on now, my flannel and leggings don’t do it for you?”
“Sweetheart, you could wear a potato sack and I would instantly develop a burlap kink.”
Judging by the intense heat in his eyes when he says it, I’m not sure he’s joking. Desire sizzles through my veins and I know I should move—or at least look away—but I can’t make myself.
