Yesterday!
When the vendor hands him the wrapped package, Cole tucks it under one arm and offers me his other.
“Cold?” he asks, though his eyes suggest he knows the answer doesn't really matter, and once again, my stupidly traitorous heart gallops.
I should say no. I should create some distance.
But I slip my arm through his without hesitation.
So much for getting a grip, Aurora Williams, idiot extraordinaire.
We continue walking through the market, and I try to focus on the scenery instead of the warmth of his arm under mine. The snow is falling steadier now, turning Covent Garden into something out of a snow globe.
“So what do you do when you're not saving damsels in distress and reluctantly attending Christmas markets?” I ask as we pass a stall selling handmade chocolates shaped like Christmas trees. “Please don't tell me it's all spreadsheets and conference calls.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Mostly spreadsheets and conference calls, actually.”
“That's tragic,” I say with mock solemnity. “There has to be something else. Hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Secret talents I should know about?”
“I build things,” he admits, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seems almost shy. “With my hands. Woodworking, mostly. Furniture, toys for Hollie. Nothing fancy, but it's...meditative.”
I stop walking and turn to stare at him with delight. “Wait, you build furniture? Like, actually make it?”
“Is that so surprising?” He raises an eyebrow, but I can see he's fighting a smile.
“Honestly? Yes.” I grin up at him. “I had you pegged as someone who exclusively reads financial journals and watches documentaries about tax law.”
“I do that too,” he deadpans. “But a man needs balance.”
“Woodworking as balance,” I repeat, charmed by this glimpse beneath his serious exterior. My mind immediately goes to the rocking horse he just bought and to how carefully he examined the craftsmanship. “That's why you looked at that rocking horse the way you did. You were evaluating the joinery, weren't you?”
He looks almost caught out, a hint of colour creeping up his cheeks beneath his dark facial hair. “The dovetails were exceptional. Hand-cut, not machine-made.”
“Of course you noticed that,” I say, squeezing his arm. “What kind of things do you make?”
He considers me for a moment, then admits, “Started with a bookshelf for Hollie's room. Then a toy chest. Last month, I finished a dining table. It took me three months, but the grain matched perfectly.” There's quiet pride in his voice. “It's satisfying, you know? Taking raw wood and turning it into something that'll last. Something solid and real that you can actually use.”
The vulnerability in those words makes my chest tight. Something solid and real. I wonder if that appeals to him because so much of his life feels uncertain—the way his wife left, the way he has to be everything for Hollie, the way he builds walls to keep from getting hurt again.
“It doesn't sound silly at all,” I say gently. “I think it's wonderful that the grumpy CFO has a secret soft spot for creating beautiful things with his hands.”
“It's not secret if I’ve just told you about it,” he points out.
“Fair.” I look up at him, something warm settling in my chest. The image of him at his workbench, careful and focused, building something for his daughter fills me with a tenderness I wasn't expecting. “Thank you for telling me.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and when he speaks, his words drip with a sincerity that makes my heart hurt. “Thank you for asking, Rory.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a beat, the sounds of the market washing over us—laughter, music, the call of vendors advertising their wares. A bell choir starts playing “Deck the Halls” somewhere nearby.
“What about your friends?” I ask. “The ones you meet at the bar religiously?”
His expression softens further. “Reed and Jace. We've known each other since forever. They're...” He pauses, searching for words. “They're family, I suppose. The kind who give you endless shit but would drop everything if you needed them to.”
“Sounds like good people.”
“The best,” he agrees. “Though they've been insufferable lately about my workaholic tendencies.Apparently, taking an afternoon off is headline news in our group chat.”
I laugh at that. “I'm corrupting you.”
