Page 35 of The Christmas Blueprint

Killian’s heart stuttered, and he nearly clutched his chest. What was with Bear Creek and all the feels? He was usually so even keeled. Calm in any storm.

“I play the trombone,” Sophia said, “but that’s not an instrument I can play and sing at the same time. But I have a musician who’s in college who plays in my store during Christmas time, and she sings. Maybe you can join her on a song.”

Harlow’s face lit up more brightly than the glow jewelry that winked around her head and wrist.

“Really? Will she let me?”

“I think so. We can ask her tonight after the tree lighting and First Friday begins.” Sophia locked up her shop and they began to walk with the crowd down toward the park. “Lakshmi used to work with kids your age as an assistant teacher on the marimba before she left for college so I bet she’d be happy to sing with you on a couple of songs.”

“That would be amazing.” Harlow spun in a circle.

Killian was taking mental notes. Singing, maybe dancing. What else did young girls like? He’d have to ask Sophia.

That was dumb. He should ask Harlow, but he was having trouble taking his eyes off of Sophia, so tall and lithe, charming and confident as she walked by his side, her attention on Harlow, not him.

“This year is going to be special for all of us,” Sophia said, her voice light, cheerful, but Killian could hear the thread of steel running through it. “You’ll have to tell us what other things you love to do at Christmas. You said you like singing.” She ticked it off on her finger like she was starting a list.

“I love singing.”

“So we’ll talk to Lakshmi, but did you know that Killian has a fantastic voice?”

He nearly stumbled. She glanced at him, a smile playing on her lips.

“But it’s hard for him to crack out of his shell and loosen up and enjoy himself,” Sophia said in a faux whisper. “Maybe you can help me.”

“He’s shy,” Harlow said sympathetically. “That’s okay.” Harlow’s big blue eyes rounded on him. “Some of the biggest pop stars are men,” Harlow revealed as if he’d just landed on the shores of Bear Creek in the Ark. “And they have a zillion followers. Breath support is essential,” she said importantly. “And a stylist team. Don’t worry. Sophia and I will help you.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely, not sure if he should laugh or be horrified. He didn’t want to imagine what a nine-year-old would consider styling for him.

Harlow waved goodbye to her friend as her mother collected her.

“I think you are planning to gang up on me,” he said softly to Sophia as they joined the throng moving down the street toward River Bend Park. His face brushed her hair, and her scent drifted over him, creating a longing that was visceral. He loved that she was tall. And he was having a hard time not playing with her hair. The unusual, messy braid just begged for his fingers.

He jammed his hands in the pocket of his North Face puffer jacket.

He was responding to Sophia, wanting things he knew he shouldn’t, and he had only been home a few days. How was he going to make it through Christmas, much less a year?

She tilted her head back and stared at the black sky. Her breath caught.

“Killian, look, the North Star,” she breathed, catching his arm to hold him in place as the crowd surged around them. And then a snowflake drifted down, followed by another and another.

“Snow.” Sophia’s eyes closed and a flake caught in her eyelashes. She stuck out her tongue. “First snow of the season.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That’s definitely a good sign.”

“One of many.” He shot for optimism and was rewarded by a Harlow and a Sophia smile.

*

They walked downMain Street, occasionally bumping along with the slow-moving, gently jostling crowd. Sophia had scored three electric candles. She handed one to Harlow and then to him.

“Ready, set, go.” Sophia switched hers on with the excitement of a kid.

The orange glow lit her high cheekbones while shadowing her cheek, making her look even more beautiful.

Harlow fumbled with the switch, and he helped before flicking his candle on as well. Most of the crowd had lighted theirs, and then somebody—probably the choir director—started singing “Come All Ye Faithful.” His mother had loved Christmas carols. She’d always had music on and was part of a women’s choir in town. The company he’d been working for in Seattle had participated in a battle of the choirs called Figgy Pudding. He’d hadn’t participated last year even though the man spearheading it was his boss.

But that was over now.

And here he was.

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