Page 11 of Oops I Fell For The Lumberjack Next Door

"Can you hand me the measuring tape?" He's in the crawlspace hole, half his body below the floor, looking up at me.

I grab it from the floor and crouch to hand it down. Our fingers brush. His are warm, rough. Mine are cold.

"Thanks." He disappears back under the floor. "Your joists are solid. Red fir. Whoever built this place knew what they were doing with the bones."

"Just not the skin."

A sound comes from under the floor. Low, quiet. He's laughing. Under my bedroom, in the crawlspace of my disaster cabin, Briggs Holloway is laughing at my joke.

My chest does the thing again. The noise thing. I ignore it.

He works for two hours. The old boards come out, the new ones go in, trimmed to size with the circular saw on the lawn, carried in, fitted, screwed down with a drill that whirs every few minutes. I stop pretending to work and start handing him tools when he asks.

We talk. Grudgingly, on my part. Brief answers that get longer without my permission.

He asks what I'm editing. I tell him about the romance manuscript. He says his mom reads romance novels, has a whole shelf of them. I ask about his mom. He tells me about his mom, who apparently runs the wreath barn on the farm every Christmas season, knows everyone's business, and is probably already planning my introduction to Whisper Vale society. He says this with a fondness that softens his whole face.

I ask about the tree farm. He explains the growth cycle. Seven to ten years per tree from planting to harvest. How you shear them in summer to shape the growth, thin the branches so light reaches the interior. How the farm opens in late November for cut your own season, families driving hours to pick their tree.

"You grow them for a decade and then people cut them down in an afternoon."

He looks up from the floor. "That's the whole point. They don't live in the ground forever. They live in somebody's living room for a month, covered in ornaments and lights, with presents underneath and kids sleeping next to them on Christmas morning. The tree has one job, and it gets ten years to prepare for it."

I don't know what to say to that. It's unreasonably beautiful for a man on his knees in a crawlspace.

A knock at the side door saves me from having to respond.

"Yoo hoo! Hello? New neighbor? I'm Donna Holloway, Briggs's mother, and I've brought muffins!"

Briggs closes his eyes. "Don't let her in the bedroom."

"Why?"

"Because she'll see me on your floor and we'll be engaged by sundown."

Too late. Donna Holloway is already in my kitchen. She's small, silver haired, bright blue eyes, carrying a basket that could feed a family of six. She and Patty Cole from across town are thick as thieves, and between the two of them, nothing happens in Whisper Vale without a casserole showing up within the hour. She sweeps through the room with the confidence of a woman who has never once been told no, spots the hallway, spots me, spots Briggs through the doorway on his knees in my bedroom, and her face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree from his own damn farm.

"Oh, Briggs. How lovely that you're helping."

"Mom."

"I'm Donna." She takes my hand with both of hers. "Welcome to Whisper Vale, sweetheart. You're even prettier than Tom Parker said. Muffins are cinnamon. I've also got a list of contractors, a welcome packet from the ladies' auxiliary, and the number for Doc Morrison in case you need anything."

"That's incredibly kind of you." And it is. Despite the matchmaking gleam in her eyes that's so intense it's practically audible.

"Briggs, why don't you take a break and have a muffin with us."

"I'm in the middle of the floor, Mom."

"The floor can wait. Margot just moved here. She needs a proper welcome."

He emerges from the bedroom, sawdust in his beard, pencil still behind his ear. Donna hands him a muffin the size of his fist. He takes it. Eats half in one bite. She beams.

For twenty minutes, Donna Holloway fills my kitchen with warmth and conversation while Briggs leans against the counter eating muffins and saying nothing. She tells me about the Christmas festival, the general store, Holly Pearce's bakery. She asks about my work, my family, whether I'm settling in. She doesn't ask about a husband, which tells me she already knows.

When she leaves, it's with a hug I didn't expect to need and a promise to check on me next week.

"Your mom is terrifying," I say after the door closes.