“What were you doing with an axe?” she asks suddenly. Her voice is soft, unsure.
“Cutting wood.”
“Um. Shirtless?”
I shrug. “Work heats you up.”
Her eyes flick to my chest again. She swallows. I feel that swallow like a damn blow.
“Right. Of course,” she says. “Makes perfect sense.”
She tries to sound casual but her voice wobbles. She is nervous. Cold. And trying like hell not to let me see it.
“Sit if you want,” I say. “You look like you are going to fall over.”
She hesitates, then sits on the edge of the recliner closest to the fire. She sets her cookie tin on her lap and slowly opens it. The smell of gingerbread and vanilla hits the air.
It guts me instantly.
That smell.
That warmth.
That memory.
For a second, I see it all.
A lit tree.
Red and gold ornaments.
Stockings.
My ex laughing while we hung lights.
Days before she walked out.
Right before I found out she had someone else.
Bigger house. More money. Moresomething.
I shove the memory down. It was years ago.
She glances up at me with a hopeful little smile. “They survived. Mostly.”
“Good,” I say. Too rough.
“You want one?”
I stare at the tin. Then at her.
I want to say no.
I want to stay far away from anything resembling holiday cheer.
But she is looking at me like she genuinely wants to share something she made with her own hands.
“Maybe later,” I say. My voice softens against my will.
