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“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Some asshole stole my electric heater, and with the window out, the house turned into a freaking igloo. I had to set an alarm and wake up every hour to put more wood on the fire, otherwise, I would have frozen.”
I gape at her. “And you didn’t think to call me?”
“Oh, I definitely thought about it, but in the end, I chose my pride over my survival instincts. If I knew you were going to be the one showing up today, maybe I would have reconsidered,” she muses. “Actually . . . no, I wouldn’t have. I was happy freezing.”
I scoff as I reach for my tools. “You really hate me that fucking much?”
“What?” she breathes, her eyes widening. “Is that what you think? That Ihateyou?”
I let out a heavy breath. “Honestly, I have no fucking idea what I think, and when it comes down to it, I don’t think you do either.”
She visibly swallows, her gaze dropping back to the table. “I’ve never hated you, Nick,” she whispers, getting to her feet. “I, ummm . . . I’ve got a lot to do if I’m going to get the house painted before Christmas.”
Blair quickly excuses herself from the kitchen, disappearing into one of the spare bedrooms, and just as I turn my attention back to the window, Christmas carols blast through the house.
I blow out a heavy breath. I’m all for the people of Blushing getting into the Christmas spirit and shitting baubles, but Christmas music has always been like nails on a chalkboard to me.
Doing my best to ignore the screechy song coming from down the hall, I go about my business getting the window installed back into the frame and fixing the parts of the frame that are keeping it jammed. The second the window is back to its former glory, the warmth begins spreading through the house again, and a hear a relieved, “Thank fuck,” from down the hall.
I move on to the backdoor, noticing a few issues around the house that weren’t added to the multiple to-do lists Blair has stuck to the fridge, and I make a mental note to add them when I wander back out there.
The backdoor lock is a fucking bitch and takes much longer than anticipated, and when I walk back out to grab a different tool, I find Blair padding around the kitchen, in the middle of dishing up two plates, one with a half turkey sub and the other nearly overflowing.
I arch my brow as she turns around, pausing when she notices me standing by the dining table. “Oh, umm . . . I made you lunch. Figured you might be hungry.”
I’m overcome by shock, and not knowing how to respond, I just stare, and her expression quickly morphs. “For fuck’s sake, Nick. It’s not like I poisoned it. It’s just a turkey sub. If you don’t want it, that’s fine. I’ll throw it in the trash. Doesn’t matter to me if you’d prefer to starve.”
She goes to reach for the plate and I quickly step in, taking it from her hand. “Woah. No need to be hasty,” I say. “I was just . . . surprised. After the way things ended the other day, I figured the next time you saw me, you’d come armed with killer pinecones.”
“Consider it a peace offering,” she tells me, glancing toward the table and going to make a move toward it before thinking better of it and remaining by the kitchen counter. “But really, if I had poisoned it, could you blame me? You were an ass.”
“You weren’t exactly an angel, either.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve pictured the moment we’d see each other again a million times over, and it never went like that.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, placing my plate down on the dining table and moving across the kitchen, placing myself right in front of her, her chest grazing mine. “And how exactly did you picture it going down?”
Blair’s cheeks flush, and she purposefully takes a too-big bite of her sub, rendering her unable to speak, not without spitting turkey from one end of the kitchen to the other. And despite being more than prepared to wait her out, somehow I feel that I’ll never get the answer to that question.
A smirk stretches across my lips, and I lean into her, watching the way she sucks in a breath, her chin lifting as if waiting for me to close the gap. And fuck, I’ve never wanted something more, but instead of giving in to my every desire and kissing her, I reach around her and take the pen that’s been left haphazardly on the counter. “Your laundry sink is leaking,” I tell her, pinching the corner of one of her many to-do lists and tearing it off the fridge. “You’re gonna need someone to take care of those pipes for you.”
Blair blanches, and I give her a moment to recover as I scrawllaundry sinkat the bottom of the list. I get back to my sub as Blair cleans up the kitchen, stealing my plate out from under me and dumping it into the sink before I’ve had a chance to finish my lunch.
She trails out of the kitchen and I find myself following her down the hall to the spare room she’d been working in earlier. It’s practically an empty canvas, the furniture all pushed into the center of the room and draped with old sheets while the walls bear evidence of her handiwork.
“So, you’re really selling this place, huh?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe, watching as she scoops out some wall putty and slathers it across the wall, doing what she can to patch up the wear and tear of the last fifty years.
“I don’t want to,” she says, slathering way too much putty onto the wall. “But what choice do I have? I want to build this new business, and while I have enough to get started, it’s not enough to support me while the business grows and develops. It’s my only safety net.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I say, mirroring that same defeat Blair showed when she realized she put a wave in the wall. She really has her heart set on heading back to New York and starting her next chapter, but why should it bother me? I came to the realization that she has her big-city life and that a small-town guy like me has absolutely nothing to offer her.
She’s forever going to be the one who got away, even now when she’s standing right in front of me.
I watch her for a second longer before I run out of control and step deeper into the room. “You’re doing it wrong.” Stepping in behind her, I take the small spatula out of her hand and show her how much putty she needs to scoop before demonstrating the best way to smooth it onto the wall. She watches me with a keen eye, taking everything in and slowly nodding. Then simply because I can’t help myself, I scrape off the excess putty from her previous attempts and start making my way around the room. “If you’ve got too much product, you’ll be waiting too long for it to dry before you can start sanding. You won’t be painting for days.”
Blair lets out a frustrated huff before leaning back against the door. “I’m never going to get the hang of this.”
“You will,” I encourage, and once every last defect in the wall has been filled, I put the spatula down and walk out of the room, knowing that if I spend one more second in here, I won’t be able to resist falling to my knees and begging her to take me back.
