skills. Here.” She shoved a whole bunch of supplies in front of me. “I promise I won’t bother you until you’re finished.”
I opened my mouth but Noelle already flashed a parting smile and was corralling her coworkers over to the next table, leaving Saint and me alone which, judging by his grateful nod, was done on purpose.
She’d said they called her No-Elf instead of Noelle; I should know that elves were always loyal to Santa.
“Holly,” Saint addressed me with a low voice, bouncing a shiver down my spine, and I regretted giving him permission to call me anything except Miss Jolly. Unfortunately, I could only blame the twinkle in his eye that had me capitulating so easily to such an informality.
“Mr. Nicholsen,” I murmured, holding strong to my semblance of professionalism, at least when we were in public. Which was the only place, I’d firmly decided, we’d ever be.
His weight shifted as he cleared his throat. It was the same movement every time I refused to call him Saint—a subtle injury only I could see.
“Have you decided what ornament you’re going to make?” He nodded to the thin wood backing I would have to draw and cut from.
“Something simple,” I sighed and blew a stray strand of hair from my face where it had fallen from my ponytail.
I froze when a large hand invaded my periphery with slow and steady determination. My breath sat paralyzed in my lungs as he tucked the lock back behind my ear. He didn’t touch me. Not even a brush of his fingers as he secured the wayward wave around the shell of my ear.
But he came close enough for me to want him to. For all my cells to stand on end, a static-like electricity existing in the infinitely small space between his skin and mine.
For me to crave an intimacy I’d fled from for so long.
This was how it always was around Saint. Always close enough for me to want. To hope. To believe.
It was the same dangerous track as believing in Santa. There were so many well-placed clues to keep you believing, until one day, the truth was bared and all that magic was nothing more than well-wrapped lies.
“Something simple?” He arched a sculpted eyebrow. “From the woman building a two-story gingerbread house in my lobby?”
My lips pursed. “A pastry architect and an artist are two different things,” I informed him tartly, reaching for a marker to outline my design. “Architecture is all straight lines and angles. Measurements and rules. That is completely different than fine art. I can’t draw to save my life.”
Saint chuckled even as his gaze drank me in. The woman with a Christmas-nomer who hated the holiday. The architect who couldn’t draw. An enigma.
“And how about you?” I prompted, folding my arms. “Have you made your ornament?”
“That’s what I came over here to do.” He reached for his own piece of wood and a pencil.
Great.
“I think I’ll attempt Santa this year,” he went on, and I waited while he began a rough outline. “Last year, I did Rudolph, but I made the nose too big.” He laughed, recalling the incident. “Way too big. Everyone had a good laugh that I’d made the reindeer have a sinus infection.”
“How nice of you,” I murmured, watching him because I’d never done this before.
“Maybe I’ll just go with holly,” I said with a soft voice. “Nice and easy.”
Tearing my eyes from him, I uncapped my marker, about to set the felt onto the wood when his hand closed over mine. Sparks ignited over my skin where it contacted his.
“You should use pencil,” he told me with a low, hoarse voice. “The marker will bleed through.”
My tongue felt thick and cumbersome in my mouth. “Of course.”
Pulling back, I recapped the marker and my mistake and reached for a pencil.
“Have you made an ornament before?”
My head hung, and I replied calmly, “I doubt most people have made an ornament before.”
This was exactly where I didn’t want the conversation to go. My hand moved in harsh lines, marking the wood with two circles and a blob for the holly leaf without really seeing them.
“Good point. I didn’t until I was fifteen.”
My attention snapped up, but he was focused on his work. He knew what he was doing. He knew what that type of answer was meant to cause—curiosity.
“Fifteen?” Damn him.
He nodded. “I was adopted when I was fifteen.” My hand paused its uncoordinated movement. “On Christmas.” He looked up and winked at me.
“So, that’s why