“I did.”
“Isn’t that like a boarding school?” This man missed out on the brilliance of public education. How is he a functioning adult without ever learning “Hot Cross Buns” on the recorder?
“My parents traveled abroad a lot. So they put me in a school where I could live on campus.”
And my stupid heart cracks a bit more. I couldn’t imagine living away from family, being separated from everything I knew as home. I feel like I should match his admission with one of my own. “I never knew my dad, and my mom was never around—or just didn’t want to be around—when I was growing up. I understand what it feels like to have absent parents.”
His thumb skims along the ridges of my spine. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be around you.”
Good thing I’m in the arms of a man who handles hot things because my internal temperature is concerning. “Fletcher told me you’re a firefighter?”
“I am.”
“You told me you missed our date because you had towork. Am I to assume, Remington Orileo Mathis, that there was a fire the night we were to meet?”
He swallows and looks away. “Yeah.”
I lightly swat his shoulder. “Here I was thinking your office copier jammed, and you used that as an excuse. I had no idea you were out battling a fire.”
A smile returns to his lips. “A paper jam?”
“Or delayed by a pretty secretary.”
The warmth of his laugh surrounds me. “Our secretary is a fifty-year-old man named Mike. He’d throat punch me if I called him pretty.”
“I’m sorry I somewhat loathed you when you were out being a hero.”
A shadow flickers across his face. “No need to apologize, Greta. I’m no hero.” He eases closer. “I wasn’t trying to deceive you about my name. But I never get the chance to be just Leo. People know me for my family, my status. Mostly for my?—
“Money?” And probably Ivy Hall. The tight lines framing his pensive gaze are enough to squelch any enthusiastic curiosity I have about his family’s estate.
“Yeah.” His eyes catch the soft glow of the twinkling lights, and I note the amber flecks among darker shades of brown. “But you knew me just as some dude you nearly skewered with an elf.”
I snort. “And being almost stabbed is better than being known as rich?”
“Yes.” His tone’s dead serious.
“I can see how it would be tough to know who’s being genuine or not.”
He shrugs. “I can usually tell someone’s motives within two seconds of meeting them. It’s one of those things you learn when your family has money. You learn to use your gut.”
I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never had the burden of being stinking rich. But the feathering niggle in my chest wants to know—what does his gut say about me? Of course I’m too chicken to utter such a thing. So I switch the subject. “I found some information about the ceramic tree.”
“Really? That was quick.” The pleased surprise in his deep timbre slides over my skin.
I smile. “I should be getting a call back with more details on Thursday.”
“I can swing by your store on Friday.”
Fletcher did awesome in his keynote address. He discussed the merits of the fire department, approached the topic of renovations for the station, and kept everything under twenty minutes, which my acorn-sized bladder heartily approves of. I text Tilly to meet me at the women’s headquarters—aka the bathroom.
She squeals the second she sees me. “I saw you dancing with Fletcher the Fine!”
I press a wad of paper towels against my armpit because sweat and silk are about as compatible as a snowman and a blowtorch. “I never dubbed Fletcher that way.”
She gives a skeptical look. “Fletcher the Fetching? Oh I like that. It just rolls off the tongue.”
I laugh. “I don’t think I gave him a descriptor.”
