Page 14 of A Newport Christmess

“I’m kidding,” I said, though the uncertain tone I used even left me questioning what my original intentions had been. What was I doing? I was way too out of practice to attempt flirting ... or teasing ... or whatever this awkwardness was. Taking a big step back, I threw the door open wide to give Landon plenty of room to enter.

“I’ll be in and out.” He stepped through, careful to keep his distance from the mad woman occupying his house, and moved to the center of the living room. He glanced at each surface, and after realizing they were still all entirely occupied by gingerbread pieces and cookie sheets full of more gingerbread pieces, he set the box down in front of the fireplace.

“I’ll just keep on working, then.” I threw a thumb over my shoulder toward the kitchen and shut the front door with a muted groan at my continued idiocy.

The two of us worked in strained silence—me continuing to tidy up and Landon putting up decorations. I tried to keep my attention from drifting to him, but it was hard to break a lifelong habit of people-watching, particularly when he was so fascinating to watch. I mean, not just because he was easy on the eyes, but every time he pulled something from the box, he’d turn it over in his hands with a bewildered look, glance around the room, and then shove the object onto the overfilled fireplace mantel.

“They’re stocking holders,” I said, unable to stop myself as he studied two identical metal reindeer with a wary look. “You typically set them on the edge of the mantel and hang stockings on them.” Though I wasn’t sure if there was currently room for them amongst all the other posh Christmas knickknacks.

Without a word, he carefully scooted a few of the objects closer together and placed the reindeer on the mantel, directly in the middle. When he pulled two white, knitted Christmas stockings from the box, he stared at them with a guarded expression before placing them on the holders’ hooks. “Thanks,” he finally muttered.

Yep. He definitely had the brooding thing down.

With a garland in hand, he moved to the stair banister that led to the third floor and hastily weaved it through the iron bars. The final result was far too much garland at the bottom and a few loops that didn’t lay correctly.

I rinsed off the washcloth I’d been scrubbing the counters with. “I’m happy to put up the decorations if you leave them here.”

He eyed the lopsided garland. “That bad, huh?”

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t muster any assurances. I’d never been very good at lying.

“Decorating isn’t my strength,” he said.

I looked around the magazine-worthy space. “Someone else did this for you?”

His jaw set. “My ex-wife.”

I glanced at his empty ring finger as though I’d find evidence of a previous marriage there. “I’m sorry. I’m also divorc—”

His sardonic laugh cut me off. “Of course you’d be divorced.”

The sucker punch to my gut stunned me, and I wrapped a hand around myself, trying to get my bearings.

Landon trudged to where the box sat and scooped it up. “I’ll be back with the tree on Monday.”

I clenched my hands at my sides, glad the dining room table was between us so he couldn’t see the effect of his comment on me. “I don’t need a tree.” The high road was usually my path of choice, so I kept my tone casual. “In fact, I’m not planning on really celebrating Christmas this year.”

I intended to stop there, but I hated unspoken tension and would rather just have it all out than risk encountering it with each conversation Landon and I had—not that I’d expect many to follow this one. “You don’t need to care, but I came to Newport so my best friend wouldn’t feel guilty about spending Christmas with her family instead of me. And so I’d have a valid excuse to miss a Christmas get-together where I’d be showered with pity and unhelpful comments about my recent divorce from my well-meaning family. But had I known I’d be staying in your house—that I’d be putting you out—I wouldn’t have come. One thing I’ve learned about myself this past year is that I hate being an inconvenience. If I had the money, I’d find somewhere else to stay. I don’t. I’m sorry that I’m here. Really. But until your sister or her assistant can find me new accommodations, I don’t know what else to do.”

He stared at me for a long moment before he shook his head—slowly at first until it grew more noticeable. “You don’t need to leave. And you shouldn’t be the one apologizing.” He tipped his head back and then lowered it again to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry for my comment about not being surprised you’re divorced. I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

“Regardless, if you’re upset I’m in your house, I’m fine to sleep downstairs. Really.”

“This isn’t about you being in my house.” His hands drummed against the cardboard box absently. “It’s the reason you’re here.”

I glanced down at the dining room table, full to the brim with gingerbread. “You’re upset about my baking?”

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Maybe he was the crazy one. “Apparently not.”

He shifted the box to his side and ran a hand through his gloriously thick, dark hair—not that I was taking notice of how attractive he currently looked in his nicely fitted jeans and gray t-shirt that sat snugly against his broad chest. “How well do you know Nikki?” he asked, forcing my gaze back to his.

I shrugged. “We’ve only met twice in person. She was my mentor at a conference in San Diego a few years ago, then we met up at another conference this past summer. Other than that, we message occasionally and follow each other on social media. Why?”

His distant gaze focused before meeting mine. “So you aren’t aware she is a self-proclaimed match-maker?”

I tilted my head to the side, not sure why he’d bring up such a random thing, but suddenly, my eyes grew wide with understanding. “You think your sister is trying to set us up?”