Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
And his breath seems to hiss out when I’m close like this. When I touch him. When I slide my hands through his soft strands.
“Your hair is…” I swallow the word but then find it again, meeting his gaze. “Nice.”
“Thanks,” he says, his voice raspier than usual. A little gritty too.
Mac’s footsteps rattle on the floor. We step apart, the moment breaking.
Seconds later, Mac flies down the stairs to stop in front of me, a paper snowflake in her hand. “She had a snowflake on her neckline. In the movie pics,” Mac explains.
Right. Of course. I looked them up, too, but I’d figured a red sweater would be sufficient for the costume. Maybe not for an eleven-year-old though.
“Then it’s a good thing you made one,” I say, then I bend so she can pin this makeshift addition to my costume to the neckline. Her tongue’s poking at the corner of her lips as she concentrates. Once she gets it just right, she says, “There.” She steps back, sizes me up, and says, “It’s perfect now. Right, Dad?”
He curls his hand around her shoulder and looks me over. “Beautiful,” he says.
Does he mean the snowflake or me?
Duh. The snowflake. He’s complimenting his kid’s handiwork. “Yes, thank you, Mac. It’s a beautiful snowflake,” I say.
“Thanks. I’m going to make sure we have popcorn,” she says. “So we can watch anything but Love Actually during the shower.”
“Good plan,” Wilder says, and when Mac disappears, presumably into the kitchen, Wilder says to me, “I’ll show you around so it seems like you know the place.”
It’s make-believe, this holiday romance, but it’s not hard to pretend I’m in a fairy tale as he takes me through this castle of a home.
First, there’s the library on this level, which has a few detective novels scattered on a table near a plush green couch. A ladder rests against some mis-shelved middle-grade books, adventure stories, and time travel tales.
“A girl could get lost in here,” I say, admiring the wooden bookcases, then running my fingers across some of the spines.
“Yes, it’s been known to happen with a certain eleven-year-old,” he says wryly.
“Takes after you,” I say.
Stopping at the ladder, he smiles, proud and deservedly so. “She does. But she has an artistic side, too, like her mother.”
“I noticed. Her ornaments are top tier,” I say, then add in a conspiratorial whisper, “can’t help but love her crafty side.”
“You have one as well,” he says. “Our door is going to win.”
I wave a hand. “We’ll see.”
Resting a forearm on the ladder, he nods to my neck. “Your necklace. Did you make it?”
I lift my hand to touch the simple, delicate chain. It’s rose gold, with a tiny bow at the throat. “I did. Recycled metal for the chain. And the bow comes from some vintage pieces I sourced at a cool flea market in Darling Springs.”
He lifts a brow, clearly curious. “You do that?”
“Go to flea markets around the state to source materials?”
“Yes.”
“Nearly everything I make comes from recycled materials.”
“Like in the shirt design you’re working on for us,” he says, putting clues together like in one of his detective novels.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s my thing too.”
He seems almost…taken with this intel. “So, it’s our thing—looking after the planet,” he adds. It’s as if we’ve just discovered we both dog-eared the same scenes in the same book as a kid or want to visit the same Aztec ruins.
“Seems it is,” I say.
He doesn’t look away, just studies the chain from a slight distance, then raises his gaze to mine again. “Would you ever want to do that full-time? Make your own jewelry? Or really, do more of that?”
Yes, god, yes. But should I say that to my boss? I’m not sure I should let on that my dream is to one day open a shop, or two or three. Bosses want to believe you’ll stay with the company forever. They don’t want to know you have other goals and aspirations. Loyalty, I’m sure, is important to him. “Maybe on the side,” I say, hedging my bets.
“Like an Etsy shop? I could see that,” he says.
The fact that he can picture it and not be threatened by it makes my heart glow. “Yes. Like that,” I say, taking a small step in sharing my dreams with him.
“You should. They’re too beautiful to keep to yourself.”
But there’s a nagging feeling in my stomach. I don’t want to lie to him. “Actually, I have one already,” I confess.
He lifts a brow. “An Etsy shop?”
“I just dabble for now. Sell a few things here and there,” I say.
“What’s the name?”
“Made by Fable,” I say, then roll my eyes. “It’s not that original.”
“You have the perfect name for a designer. It’s artistic and creative. It’s a good name for a shop, Fable,” he says, and there’s no faint praise in his tone. I can tell he means it.