I grip the costume, hesitation flooding through me. Because I didn’t want to risk the seventy-five-year-old Maverick catching pneumonia, I purposely made the shirt larger to allow for Bruce to dress warmly beneath. My gaze toggles between the shirt and Leo’s frame. I’m unsure if it will fit, and I’m not about to break out my measuring tape to gauge his chest. Oh well. It’s too late to adjust anyway. “Might be a tad snug.” As for the pants, I’m not going to bother. Leo’s at least a foot taller than Bruce. Guess Leo’s black joggers will have to do.
His gaze roves over the shirt. Most guys wouldn’t be thrilled to wear a red button-down with decorative sequins and faux fur trim, but appreciation warms Leo’s eyes. “You made this, didn’t you?”
“Of course. You, my friend, are Bob Wallace tonight.” I plop the Santa hat on his head. “There.”
His eyes dart to the rolling rack, which holds my dress. “Are you Betty?”
“I am.”
He steps closer. “And we’re recreating the final scene of the movie?” His tone takes on a sudden interest. “Theentirescene?”
“Um, no,” I sputter. “We’re not making out behind the tree.” Awareness pricks like a hundred pine needles across my skin. Nope. I will not acknowledge this … or even name it. Gran once warned me—when a stray cat took refuge under our porch—neverto name something, unless I want it to become mine. Because once I named it, my heart would take ownership of it.She knew that about me. And I need to take heed of her words. Leo is not mine. So I will not claim this attraction. I brush away that pesky feeling, refusing to feed it.
He shrugs with an easy grin. “Just want to stand by my promise of full cooperation.”
“That’stoomuch cooperation.”
“Anything for Gran,” he tosses back, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Instead of noting how the left side of Leo’s mouth climbs higher than his right when he smiles, I force my focus on the costume. “Maybe you should try it on.” If it doesn’t fit, I’ll have to improvise.
He nods and tugs off the Santa hat and hands it to me. With smooth finesse, he removes his hoodie, revealing a snug tee beneath. I remember once laughing how women from the Regency era never showed their ankles because it was considered scandalous. Ankles, really? But this is the first time I’ve seen Leo in short sleeves, and I’m feeling stupidly warm about something so basic. His biceps are certainly worth noting, but I’m oddly drawn to his wrists, which are twice the size of mine. So while ankles were the hot joints two hundred years ago, in modern days, for Greta Carlton, it’s wrists, specifically Leo’s. Now I’m annoyed at my own weirdness and am super relieved when Leo reaches for the costume, our fingers brushing in the process.
I don’t know why I hold my breath as he masculinely slips the shirt over his form. Something about him wearing my creation makes my pulse pound faster. I’m a hundred percent certain I wouldn’t have this reaction for Bruce.
I was right. It’s a snug fit, but it’s not exactly awful. “Maybe just don’t, like, flex or anything.” The second that’s out of my mouth, I regret it.
Leo’s roguish grin unleashes.
And of course, because I’m me, I follow up with something even worse. “You know, because the seams could rip. I won’t be able to fix it on the parade route.”
He reaches for the hat I’m currently strangling. “But it would be like old times.” His thumb runs over my knuckles, then he hooks my fingers in his and tugs me a step closer. “You have a habit of demanding I take off my clothes.”
A sharp squeak rattles my throat. “What?”
“To mend them.”
Oh, that’s right. Last year, I fixed the hole in his jacket. But I cannot come up with a witty reply because Leo knocked my brain out of service. I make a show of checking the time on my phone screen. “We should probably hurry.” I grab my gown from the rack.
“Got it, Betty.” He nods. “Any last-minute instructions?”
“Nope. Well, maybe. You’ll be driving along the parade route, but when we get to the judging station, I need you to put the truck in park and join us on the trailer. We have exactly two minutes.”
“And that’s when?—”
“You wow the masses by singing ‘White Christmas.’”
He runs a hand over his face. “Okay.”
“Are you regretting your offer to help?”
He looks at me with a curious bend to his brow. “Will this make you happy?”
“Very.”
“Then no regrets.” He tugs his keys from his pocket. “But don’t expect a perfect Bing Crosby performance.”
“You’ll be great,” I say before disappearing behind the screen with my gown. Once I slip into it, I grab the silver-plated combs from my purse. I use the selfie mode on my phone to quickly fix my hair. I emerge just as Leo jumps out of the truck.
