Never Sleigh Never (Man of the Month Club: Christmas Novella)

2. Thomas

Thomas

T he best smell in the world, the sharp scent of fresh-cut lumber, fills my nostrils this Monday morning as Mrs. Henderson shuffles slowly behind me down aisle three. The buzz of one of my guys, cutting some two-by-fours with the crosscut panel saw out back, is music to my ears.

“For a project like your mantel,” I explain, grabbing a package of fine-grit sandpaper and speaking loud enough for her to hear, “you’ll start with a light once-over with this. Then wipe it down with a tack cloth to remove the dust and apply the stain.”

“Stain?”

I spin and reach for a can of interior-grade. “You’ll want something oil-based that will give an even finish.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Henderson says, nodding. “The mantel has to be perfect to hold my new holiday garland. I just finished cross-stitching mini stockings for each of my grandchildren.”

“I’m sure they’ll love them,” I offer through clenched teeth, handing her the can. Why does everything this time of year have to be about the holidays? Especially perfect holidays, which are about as real as Santa Claus.

Mrs. Henderson accepts the can I thrust her way as I focus on the tactical advice she needs. “You’ll want to apply two coats letting it dry for twenty-four hours in between.”

Her brow pinches as if she’s worried she won’t remember my directions.

“I can write that down for you at the counter,” I offer, already reaching for the pencil tucked behind my ear.

Her deep-set eyes brighten. “You would? Well, that would be marvelous, dear. My Fred never needed your father to write down directions when he stopped by for supplies, but of course, now that they’re both gone—”

“Let’s get you rung up,” I say gruffly, cutting her off and heading toward the register before she traps me for an extended walk down memory lane when I’ve got a delivery that needs unloading.

The front door opens, and a gust of cool, crisp air sweeps in, carrying the unmistakable scent of…peppermint? That, along with the click-clack of heels against the worn wooden floor, sends warning bells ringing in my head.

An instinct that’s confirmed when I round the end cap and spot the owner of the shop across the street, Cara Livingston, breezing in, her short blonde hair perfectly in place despite the wind whipping down Main Street.

“Thomas!” she chirps, her ruby red lips curving into a determined smile when she spots me. “Just the man I wanted to see!”

I don’t bother to hide my annoyance. Cara’s bubbly enthusiasm for anything and everything is a little much. I give her a curt nod. “Cara.”

She beams, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore my less-than-warm welcome, and she turns to Mrs. Henderson. “And how are you today, Mrs. H? Excited for the holidays?”

I roll my eyes while Mrs. Henderson chuckles, reaching to grasp Cara’s outstretched hand. “Always, dear. Though I suspect not quite as much as you.”

I clear my throat, catching sight of a splint on Cara’s wrist and pray Mrs. Henderson doesn’t ask about it. That would no doubt mean another ten minutes before I could get back to work. “I’ll just get those directions—”

“Actually,” Cara interjects, sidling up to the counter and shooting Mrs. Henderson a warm smile, “you wouldn’t mind if I spoke to Thomas here for just a teensy moment, would you? I have a small favor to ask him.”

Before I can protest, Mrs. Henderson sets down her items and takes a step back. “You two go right ahead, dear. I wanted to browse the paint samples while I was here, anyway. I’m thinking of repainting my front porch sleigh. You know the one I—”

“The one you fill with the gorgeous poinsettias? I sure do know what you’re talking about. It’s the talk of the town every December,” Cara gushes as my jaw clenches tighter than a screw stuck in a stripped thread.

I cross my arms as Mrs. Henderson wanders off. I’m still not one bit curious about what favor Cara wants to ask of me. Because whatever it is, the answer’s no. Cara, catching my stance, takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders as if gearing up for battle.

The move lifts her breasts, stretching her green dress taut against the generous, perfectly shaped mounds. Not a lick of cleavage is visible, and there are no nips poking through as if waving a red flag, but the way her puppies are commanding my attention zips me back to when I was a horny teenager, not now, when I’m too old to fall for such a distraction. Even if it wasn’t intended to be one.

“I’m resurrecting the Main Street Holiday Festival,” Cara announces, her chin tilted up defiantly. “And I need your help.”

I blink, my gaze snapping back up to her face, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”

“I’m bringing back the festival,” she repeats, sliding one of the fliers in her arm across my counter and tapping it with a glittery white fingernail.

“Answer’s no.”

She barrels on as if I didn’t just tell her I’m out.

“It’s going to be magical. Twinkling lights, carolers, sweet treats, kids sitting on Santa’s lap, you know, just like it was when we were little.”

We weren’t little together. Cara’s at least five years, if not more, younger than me.

“Not a chance,” I say flatly, pushing the flier back toward her without bothering to read it.

Her smile falters for barely a second, but before she can respond, Bobby, one of my regulars, approaches with a handful of coaxial cables and a blister pack of fuses. I turn to help him, grateful for the interruption.

But Cara isn’t deterred. She steps aside but continues her pitch as I ring up the electrician. “Oh, come on, Thomas. Don’t you think Magnolia Point would turn out for a holiday festival?”

When I don’t answer, she turns her megawatt smile on Bobby. “I’m sure you agree, don’t you, Bobby? That folks would love a chance to celebrate the Christmas season together?”

Bobby, clearly not expecting to be put on the spot by one of the most beautiful women in town while he’s grabbing some supplies at the hardware store, nods in agreement. His gaze drops to her chest, where it rests a beat too long. My nostrils flare until he coughs and glances away. “I’m sure they would.”

I roll my eyes. Of course, Bobby would agree to anything Cara asked when she’s batting those long thick eyelashes at him. Good thing I’m immune. “That’ll be $37.83.”

As Bobby taps his credit card, Cara turns her smug expression on me. “See, Thomas? Everyone loves the idea. And think of the kids. They’d love it!”

I still as I load Bobby’s items into a paper sack. She’s got a point. I’m sure the kids of Magnolia Point would love a festival. The old timers, too. My gaze drops to the plastic tub of lollipops I keep by the register for little ones who stop by with their parents. I’ll have to refill it soon. But helping would mean dealing with Cara, and she’s what some might call high maintenance .

I hand Bobby his purchase. “See you next time.”

As he leaves, Cara steps closer, her voice softening. “I know you’re not big on the holidays, Thomas. But this isn’t just about Christmas cheer. It’s about community. And you’re always there to pitch in when it comes to Magnolia Point. At least, I thought you were.”

Damn, she’s good, pulling the whole helping out the community angle. Because I am there to lend a hand when it comes to this small town that’s supported our family business for generations. I’m obliged to do what I can to give back, having learned that from my dad, who was always happy to donate time or supplies when a request came in. Especially for the Main Street Holiday Festival, my mother’s favorite event of the entire year.

But running the store and doing handyman repairs around town keeps me more than busy. Plus, I get the sense Cara’s not asking because of the reasons she’s giving. Sure, she’s as much of the fabric of Main Street as the rest of us, but something tells me there’s more to the story I don’t know and I should steer clear.

“I barely have enough time to sleep these days, let alone date or help plan holiday festivals.”

Cara’s smile tightens almost imperceptibly before she smooths it over, but I’m too busy cringing inwardly at the reason I just gave. Why the hell did I bring up dating? Maybe because this gorgeous woman, standing only inches away, reminds me I haven’t had a date in more years than I care to admit.

Not that Cara would be interested in a guy like me even if she didn’t have a boyfriend. Nope, I’m the furthest thing from her type you can get. I mean, the suit she’s seeing now has slicked-back hair and looks as if he couldn’t change a tire to save his life. I’ve seen her climbing into his fancy BMW a handful of times over the past few months, her long legs on display. Hell, you couldn’t name two people in town more opposite than Cara and me.

I turn to face her, ready to shut this down once and for all. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I would help out if I could, but I can’t.”

Her shoulders drop, and there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her gorgeous green eyes that are flecked with gold.

“Can’t,” she challenges, “or won’t?” Her voice catches, but her chin lifts again, and I can’t help but admire her persistence.

I heave a sigh, my resistance crumbling like brittle drywall under a heavy hammer, as I try and fail to remember a single extra job I’ve got scheduled for the next month. Still, “Why are you pushing so hard for this, anyway? Why the arm-twisting?”

Cara’s lower lip tucks between her teeth, and she tries to shrug off the question with a throwaway answer. Something about how a town like Magnolia Point should have a holiday festival to bring folks together. But I barely hear the words because something trips across her emerald eyes. An emotion I can’t quite read.

Not that I want to. I shake off the distraction and draw a deep breath, but as if she can sense my faltering, she leans in, her voice dropping. “Come on, Thomas. The festival needs someone practical like you. And I promise, I’ll do everything I can. I just need your…” she gestures vaguely at my arms, “your muscles.”

I lift an eyebrow, ignoring the curl of pleasure in my gut. “My muscles?”

She flushes a delicate pink but plows on as if she didn’t just pay me a compliment. “For heavy lifting, setting up booths, that sort of thing. Plus, you have the truck we could use.”

I lean against the counter, considering. Cara’s not more than a bit of a thing, easily less than two bundles of shingles. And she would probably—no, make that definitely—hurt herself trying to tackle the physical tasks a festival would require. Even if she wasn’t already sporting a splint on her wrist.

The thought of agreeing to help is…unsettling. Not because I’m concerned about spending time with Cara. She might be the kind of attractive a blind man would notice, but she’s always on the go. I’m a homebody. She’s always perfectly put together when I don’t think twice about the jeans and flannel I grab every morning. She’s the complete opposite of what I’d look for in a woman—if I were looking.

I heave a sigh, already regretting my next words. “I’ll think about it.”

Cara claps her hands, her smile threatening to split her face. I look away before I’m blinded by it and shove my hands into my worn jeans pockets. This woman knows as well as I do that answer’s basically a yes coming from me. She doesn’t need to see the resignation in my expression to confirm her suspicions.

“Oh, Thomas, thank you! You won’t regret this, I promise! Our first committee meeting is tomorrow night. At Coastal Charm. Seven p.m. See you there!”

“Said I’d think about it,” I grumble, but she’s already flying out the door, those green eyes flashing with triumph as she leaves behind a trail of flyers and the lingering scent of peppermint.

As the door closes, I shake my head, wondering what I’ve just gotten myself into. At least, there’ll be a committee. Other folks who can handle Cara while I fly under the radar.

I’m tugging down the blinds behind the counter, searching for the forest green dress Cara wore when Mrs. Henderson’s voice startles me. “That Cara,” she says, as if simply making conversation. “She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?”

I spin around, ignoring the way my pulse has quickened, and pretend I wasn’t watching for the woman who just sweet-talked me into helping her in less than five minutes flat—when I am not the type who falls for shit like that—as she sprints back across the street.

“More like a blizzard sweeping through town in heels,” I grumble.

Mrs. Henderson chuckles then pats my arm. “Sometimes, a little holiday magic is exactly what we need to shake things up. Plus, your father would be so proud of you for agreeing to help, you know.”

I grunt noncommittally as I reach for the sandpaper and stain while she rummages in her bottomless purse for her wallet. It’s only then I scan the flier Cara left on the counter and curse out loud.

Less than two weeks until the festival? She can’t be serious.