a home. And love.” I nodded, feeling my face drift toward hers. “But mostly, a sense of hope.”
It was as though my confession needed to be sealed with a kiss to cement its veracity, and I came close. My nose brushed against hers, my forehead grazing against the sticky softness of her hair, our breaths coalescing in the space where our lips would meet if nudged hardly an inch forward.
“What happened to them?” she whispered thickly.
I wanted to kiss her.
Needed to.
But I needed to give her what she needed more.
“My dad is in a nursing home just outside the city. It’s beautiful and he loves it.” Pain squeezed my chest. “He has Alzheimer’s—has had it for many years—so there are very few good days anymore, but I’m grateful for them when they come around.”
“I’m so sorry, Saint.” Her fingers dug deeper, as though she could reach right into my chest and comfort my heart. “What about her? What about your mom?”
A ghost of a smile crossed my face. “She passed away twelve years ago. Stomach cancer.”
The heartbreak crisscrossing her face fractured with a quick inhale. “Twelve years,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing on mine. “That was...” My throat thickened. “That was when you started building the gingerbread houses here.”
For the first time in over a decade, someone besides myself finally knew the real inspiration behind the iconic holiday attraction.
But the truth that lingered like sugar on the tip of my tongue was that though the idea was in honor of my mother, it was also a selfish wish of a grieving man.
I exhaled slowly. “I wanted to keep the tradition alive, and hopefully, some of the magic that it brought me.” My smile took root again. “The tree, the decorations, the house...of course, it reminds me of all the good years, but mostly it reminds me of that year. It reminds me of what came long after I’d given up...it reminds me that magic is worth the wait.”
Her pulse beat erratically against the tips of my fingers. Her eyes were dark and stormy, and I felt the heat of her skin sear through my eager cells.
“Saint...” she murmured and my head drifted down to hers.
There was a loud crash and Holly pulled back, recollecting where we were and realizing what we’d been about to do.
My head hung just enough to hide the torture it was to pull away.
“Thank you...for sharing with me. I’m sorry for your loss,” she choked out.
My heart thudded, and I glanced over my right shoulder at her pastry palace. “I haven’t lost her.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, the shimmer of tears reigniting the corners of her eyes.
“I should clean up,” she murmured and scooted out from where she was wedged between the ladder and me.
“Let me help you.”
Before she could protest, I was already securing the ladder and moving it safely out of the lobby for the night.
“What are you doing?” Oh, Holly.
It seemed I couldn’t keep my icing, my questions, or all thoughts of kissing him away.
One minute we were laughing. Talking about the house. Heck, he was handing me gingerbread. And the next, he’d told me a story that reached right down inside of me as though it had a map to my most vulnerable parts and made itself a home.
Saint Nicholsen was adopted. His name unintentional, as well, but far from unloved. But while he’d grown up from that boy who’d fought against anything warm and hopeful, I was ashamed to admit that I was still stuck in that place.
Okay, so I wasn’t going around kicking presents… I’d graduated to just blowing up Santa.
I locked myself in that solitude because every time hope came knocking, hurt slammed the door in my face.
I watched as the gorgeous Christmas god turned from the maintenance closet where I stored all the equipment used for the gingerbread house. His hair was tousled—spun gold falling in whimsical waves. I had to physically force a swallow when my gaze settled lower where his Christmas-red shirt, now stained and wrinkled, was unbuttoned at the collar, a tempting glimpse of tanned, muscled skin beneath.
God, he was like the perfect present.
And I hated the analogy. And I hated myself for the analogy.
But when he stood there like that, with his hands on his trim hips, his bared forearms cut like the hardest crystals and decorated with veins, and the front of his suit pants not tailored to conceal the massive bulge against them, I wanted nothing more than to unwrap him.
Unwrap