Page 11 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
"It's not funny," he mutters, but his voice lacks its usual gruff authority.
"It's absolutely hilarious," I shoot back, wiping tears from my eyes. "What were you doing in there? Practicing to be Santa's helper?"
The question hangs between us, and his jaw ticks. We both know exactly what he was doing. He was lurking, listening, spying on my very private phone call where I basically admitted my life is falling apart.
But instead of addressing the elephant in the room, I find myself sliding off the bench.
"Come on, let's get this thing upright before someone sees and thinks we're vandalizing the town square."
Gideon blinks at me like I've just offered to help him hide a body. "You don't have to—"
"Just grab the other side, Stoneface."
The nickname slips out again, softer this time, and something flickers across his expression. Together, we lift the spruce back into its stand, our movements awkward but oddly synchronized. Like muscle memory from all those times we helped each other as kids, building snow forts, carrying groceries for his mom, moving furniture when my parents redecorated.
We work in silence, gathering scattered ornaments and hanging them back on the branches. His fingers brush mine when we both reach for the same decoration, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm that I absolutely do not want to acknowledge.
When we're finished, the tree looks almost normal. A little lopsided where Gideon broke off some branches maybe, but nothing that would draw attention from the carolers setting up across the square.
Gideon clears his throat, the sound rough in the cold air. "Cocoa?"
The word comes out like he's asking me to commit a felony, tentative and almost afraid.
I hesitate, every rational part of my brain screaming at me to turn around and glide away from this man who has the power to turn me inside out with a single look. But then he adds, so quietly I almost miss it, "Please, Lulu."
That name. That nickname only he ever used hits me like a sucker punch to the chest. He hasn't called me that since we were Seniors in High School, since before everything went to hell between us. The sound of it in his deep voice makes my throat tighten with memories I've spent a decade trying to forget.
Against every instinct for self-preservation I've developed, I nod.
I remove my skates, handing them back to the volunteers at the rental station, then join Gideon on the bench with two steaming cups from the concession stand. The hot chocolate is perfect. It’s rich and sweet with tiny marshmallows floating on top like little clouds.
For a few minutes, we just sit there sipping our drinks in comfortable silence, watching Isla and Arwen skate around the rink with the fearless grace of children. Their laughter carries across the ice, bright and infectious, and despite everything, I find myself smiling.
The moment between us is strangely comfortable, almost like old times. Like we're teenagers again, stealing moments between his work at his father’s masonry company and my shifts at the café, when the world felt full of possibility and our dreams seemed like something we could actually have.
"You okay?" he asks carefully, his gray eyes fixed on the skaters instead of me.
The simple question loosens the knot in my chest that I didn’t even realize I was holding there. All the careful control I've been maintaining since I got that first phone call from my agent about my missed deadline crumbles like a house of cards.
"No," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm really not."
And then it all comes pouring out. The writer's block that's been strangling my creativity for almost a year. The deadline for my next novel that I blew spectacularly. My publisher's ultimatum and the terrifying possibility of having to repay my advance. Money I've already spent on rent and groceries and the basic necessities of living in a big, expensive city.
"I haven't written anything decent in months," I admit, staring down at my cocoa like it holds the secrets of the universe. "Every time I sit down at my laptop, it's like staring into a void. My characters feel flat, my plots make no sense, and I can't figure out why the words just won't come anymore."
Gideon listens without saying anything, his presence solid and steady beside me on the bench. When I finally run out of words, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You're talented," he says finally, his voice certain. "And you're going to figure this out. I believe in you."
“What could you possibly know about my career?” I stare at him, incredulous, biting back a bitter retort. “It’s not like you spend your weekends in a library.”
His mouth quirks up in something that might be a smile. "I've read every one of your books."
The words refuse to make sense in my brain. I blink, shake my head, certain I misheard. "What?"
"Every single one," he confirms, his gray eyes meeting mine for the first time since we sat down. "I have them all. First editions, mostly, though I had to get the second book online because Barnes & Noble was sold out."
Shock stills every thought in my head. Gideon has read my books. All of them. Which means he's read every hero I've ever written. Every tall, dark, brooding love interest who bears more than a passing resemblance to the man sitting beside me.
