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She’s pleased with the acknowledgment. “Oh, I meant to tell you! When I was in her bedroom, I found her musical jewelry box. I was obsessed with it when I was younger, there was a spinning ballerina and it played Silent Night. But, um, unfortunately I was so little that I lost the key. So, if you come across an antique-looking one...” She trails off, seeing his expression. “I know, I know, it’s a bit like a needle in a haystack, and if it could be found, Maeve would have likely discovered it years ago, but...”
He regards her steadily. “She mentioned it in the will. I’ll keep an eye out.”
She flushes. “It’s just, I think she had some jewelry in there? Probably costume stuff, but it’s still really pretty. If you wanted it for someone in February.”
Ves looks bemused. “Oddly specific. That’s two months from now.”
“After Valentine’s Day, you’ll have plenty of time to find that post-holiday girlfriend, Mr. Ves I-Don’t-Date-over-the-Holidays Hollins.” Would a wink be too playful? He seems uncomfortable with teasing, but he also gives as good as he gets, so she chances it.
He snorts. “Subtle. And I categorically deny the implication I don’t date over the holidays because I’m a cheapskate who wants to skip the expense of a present and a nice evening out.” Before she can dwell too long on what a nice evening in the city with Ves Hollins might entail, he counters with “Since you insist on being nosy again, are you going to tell me the story behind your lack of appropriate outerwear?”
Hey, her black fleece-lined leggings and oatmeal-colored sweater are covering every inch of her. It’s chic and cozy, a hard combo during the chilly months, when everyone prioritizes function over fashion. Her only concession to the weather is her winter boots, with chunky soles to grip the ice and waterproofed to keep snow out. After too many slips and teeters on the way to work, she has definitely learned her lesson.
“I’ll have you know that this is perfectly adequate both for the workplace and for walking home and for spending time with you.” She plucks at the turtleneck collar puddled around her neck for emphasis, swallowing when Ves’s eyes do an unblinking meander down her body, leaving tingles in their wake .
“Is that what we’re doing here?” he asks, voice wrapping like velvet around each syllable.
Despite the loose, boxy fit of the sweater, he seems riveted. She swears the temperature rockets up ten degrees. The urge to thaw that implacable frost in his eyes has never been stronger, and so she tilts her neck a bit, rests her other hand on her cocked hip, and lets the moment linger.
The first time she saw him, he’d been a little disdainful. At the pub, amused by her doggedness, but adamant that his permission was off the table. At breakfast, weirdly lost and vulnerable and so damn relieved to see that cup of coffee. And every time since then he’s been, well, maybe not a perfect gentleman, but she can excuse the occasional bout of crankiness. Might even enjoy it a little.
She’s seen so many different facets of this man, but this is the one she decides she likes best.
The one that makes her skin prickle and goosebump with the concentration of his stare. All hungry heat and clenching jaw, as if he likes what he sees but is also just a little tiny bit mad about it. The collar of his dove-gray dress shirt is unbuttoned enough that she can see the hollow of his throat. If she follows that neat line of buttons down, past the leather belt and his narrow hips and those slim-fit trousers pressed to within an inch of their fiber-loving life...
With difficulty, she drags her eyes back to his face. His irritation has melted, leaving behind a remnant of a knowing smirk. Okay, so they’ve both been caught checking each other out. Now what?
Ves runs a hand across his face and exhales. “What are you doing to me?”
Her heart trips, tumbles into her stomach. How far does she want to take this?
While she’s panicking, the doorbell rings. Ves visibly jolts, looking more discombobulated than she’s ever seen him. She counts the seconds that tick by with each of his harsh, staccato inhales. They both hover, making no move to leave the kitchen, even when the bell peals out again. The noisy, jarring reminder shatters their suspended what-if moment that neither of them was brave enough to reach out and grab.
“You should get that,” he says hoarsely, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Her lips unstick long enough for her to say, “It’s your house. Ergo, ipso facto, you are who they’re here to see.” Wait. Why is she talking in Latin? She doesn’t even know Latin!
With one last stare, Ves leaves the room. It’s like his presence was the black hole sucking in all the oxygen, because the moment he’s gone, she can breathe again. What. Just. Happened.
One minute she was just sassing him a little, which has kind of become their thing. The next, it’s like she transformed into some kind of seductive siren, luring him to make a move.
And even though it terrifies her, she wants him to. She thinks she’s wanted him to for a few days now, if she’s being honest. God, what a mess.
“Elisha, your grandfather is here,” Ves’s disembodied voice calls.
Here? Now? Surely not... She barely manages to school her expression in time.
“I know how hard you two have been working, so Anita sent me over with dinner,” explains Grandpa Dave as he follows Ves into the kitchen, bundled up nice and warm in his puffy coat. He beams at Elisha as he sets down two large, familiar CorningWare containers on the table, enough to feed the three of them and then some. “We have a butternut-squash-and-spinach lasagna and apple crumble for dessert. If you stick this in the oven to warm at three hundred for fifteen, honey, I’ll be back with some vanilla ice cream. Or do you want rum raisin? Can’t go wrong with butter pecan, either. Say, son, what do you think?”
Ves blinks. Whether it’s at the amount of new information or the ease with which it’s delivered, absorbing him into the fold like he’s another grandkid. Or maybe it’s the fact that he has to offer an opinion.
The emotional 180 is a bit much, even for Elisha. “Grandpa, you didn’t have to—”
He cuts her off. “Nonsense. Ves needs to eat, doesn’t he? And Marcy told me he threw out all the pots and pans, so how was he going to cook?” He raises a bushy answer-me-that-young-lady eyebrow.
“Trash day was this morning,” says Ves.
Grandpa grunts. “Yup.”
