its neighbors.
“My mom and I used to make a gingerbread house every year for Christmas,” I told her after a few minutes of uninterrupted silence, our hands moving in perfect sync without hardly a moment of practice. “Not quite like this one though.”
She smirked. “No one’s ever had something quite like this before.”
I caught her eyes as our fingers brushed again, electricity sizzling in the air.
“No, they haven’t,” I rasped, watching a flush climb into her cheeks. We froze there for a drawn second, the words sinking into a far deeper meaning than their superficial intent.
She pulled away quickly enough to make the ladder shake, and I reached out to steady it, continuing my story before she pulled away completely.
“It was rough for me... at first... after being through foster home after foster home. And when the Nicholsens finally adopted me, I was jaded and, quite frankly, a jerk.”
I let out a rough laugh and, though she tried to make it seem like she was focused solely on her brick-laying task, I caught how her pace slowed... lingered while it waited for more of my story.
“I had no concept of what a home was. And if I did, it wasn’t a good one.”
“I’m sorry.” Her motions slowed almost to a standstill, and though my childhood wasn’t the first story I liked to tell, if it gave me this—a Holly who was curious and who was starting to unbolt the walls she kept locked around herself, I’d tell her anything.
“The day I was adopted—Christmas—my parents brought me home. There was already a tree and presents under it waiting for me and I—” I sucked in a pained breath, staring down at the rich mahogany cube in my hands, the scent bringing me back. “I revolted.”
I caught her sharp inhale. “What did you do?” The question was hardly a slip of air.
“I ripped ornaments down. I kicked the presents. And that’s when I saw it—the homemade gingerbread house.” I extended my arm with one of the final bricks, but she didn’t take it. “And I destroyed it. No, not destroyed. Pulverized.”
Her jaw dropped. Beautiful bright eyes swelled with shock and sadness. “Why?”
“I thought they were going to be like the rest of the families. Do the minimum. Not give a shit about me except for what benefits it gave them. Use me as a punching bag.” I cleared my throat, hating the pain that streaked across her face. “Figured ruining Christmas would let me know if that was what I’d be up against again. Better to just get it out of the way first, you know?”
“God, Saint. I’m so sorry.” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, not even worrying that she’d called me Saint.
This was what I wanted. I wanted the Holly without her guards. I wanted the Holly who felt safe to feel—to want—and not be afraid that there wasn’t any magic left in the world for her.
A tremor of need ran up my arm—needing to reach out and touch her—though she was out of reach on the ladder.
“Sorry,” she mumbled again with a small whimper when her gaze snagged on my outstretched hand, realizing I was waiting for her to take the block from me.
“Don’t be.” I winked at her. “My story has a happy ending.”
“What happened?” She set back on her task though it held none of her attention.
“Nothing.” I palmed the last brick.
“Nothing?”
“When I woke up, everything was cleaned up and put back in its place—minus the gingerbread house,” I went on. “And that’s how it stayed, more or less—in spite of the other tantrums I threw—my parents kept the tree and the decor and the presents up and waiting for three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Her eyes bulged and the final brick in the magnificent facade plopped down into its spot, sending drops of icing out like small, sweet mortars, several of them sinking into the fabric of my shirt.
“Oh, crap,” she exclaimed with a groan. “I’m so sorry. Here—hold on.”
Frantic to get down the ladder with a bucket of royal icing, Holly was halfway down to the floor when her small cry stopped my heart; her foot missed a rung and slammed her against the metal before sending her careening for the ground.
Swearing, I lunged around the base, catching her as she slid right into my arms. With one arm around her and the other locked on the ladder, I held her tight to me. Our chests heaved with a silent synchronicity, my breath exchanged for