“You said it, not me. You ever want to do it again, let me know.”
“Can I buy my own suit?”
She laughed. Wow, what a laugh. “If you can get it by Monday, I need a Santa for the pediatric hematology patients.”
Her eyes, how they twinkled when I answered, “It’s a date, Mrs. Claus.”
Chapter 6Grace
Two Weeks Until Christmas
When I left this morning, I’d snow brushed the first flakes off my truck, planned to clear the rest after teaching the Sunday morning yoga class and grocery shopping. But when I returned instead of snow in my driveway, there was a sweaty man wearing a wool jacket and Burberry scarf too nice for manual labor, looking rosy-cheeked and grouchy.
Alexander stood to his full height, rested his elbow on the shovel handle, and hollered. “When said Mom would need my strength, this wasn’t what I pictured.”
“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.” I put my hands on my hips as I hollered back. “What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He lifted the shovel. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“No, my aunt and uncle live here.” He said like I was dense. I concealed laughter at the implication I could afford to live in the dreamy six-bedroom Victorian, instead of the studio apartment above their detached garage.
When I’d moved in three years ago, they’d recently started their snowbird life: summers in New York to enjoy horse racing track season, winters in Florida’s sunshine. They said it was a relief to have me here to keep an eye on the house, but I’m pretty sure my lease was a favor to Helen, Mallory’s mom.
Now that they were gone half the year, I lived in fear they’d sell their home in my perfect location halfway between the yoga studio and the hospital. The above-garage below-market-rent tenant wouldn’t be contingent in the sale.
“No, I live up there,” I pointed to my apartment.
“In that shithole?”
“It’s not a — not that.” I shuffled my feet. “Why are you shoveling?”
He bent to lift more snow, his strong back muscles contracting beneath his coat. “Mom said Dad usually clears it, so I’ve been dispatched.”
“Yeah, but he uses the snowblower.”
Alexander straightened, looking more annoyed. “There’s a snowblower?”
I keyed in the garage door code. He exhaled a low curse. The bad one again.
“I was planning to clear it after work, so … thanks, I guess.”
His scowl deepened. “I saved you an hour shoveling.”
“Or six minutes with the snowblower.” I caught him fighting a smirk. “Can I repay you with a hot chocolate?”
As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I didn't know this man, had I invited him to my apartment? But when the corner of his mouth twitched, electricity pulsed through my veins. His tongue snuck out over his bottom lip. “I’ll wait while you pull your truck in.”
“I don’t park in there.”
He glanced from the empty garage to my truck. “Why not?”
“What if they come home?”
“Mom says they won’t be home until spring.”
“They might come early.”
“They won’t.”
“But it’s not in my lease.”
“It’s not good to leave your truck outside, it already needs enough work.” When I didn’t move, he reached into my pocket where he’d seen me drop the keys, walked over, and slid behind the wheel. He ignored my protests, pulling my truck into the first bay.
“It’s not in the lease,” I repeated as he got out, looking self-satisfied.
“If Terry has a problem —” right, of course, he was on a first-name basis with my landlord, his uncle, “tell him to call me and I’ll chew him out for making a woman park outside in the cold. Now let’s go get hot chocolate.”
Upstairs I nervously unloaded my groceries while he peel off his coat, revealing jeans cling to his thick thighs. He swaggered around like he owned the place — and in some ways, he did and I was just renting.
Then again, Alexander Clarke moved with the confidence of being the most important person in every room he entered. What would it be like to feel like you belong everywhere you go?
He spread his arm over the back of my couch and crossed his ankle over his knee. Gosh, he took up more space than anybody I’d ever known.
He inspected all my worldly possessions — which took approximately 19 seconds to assess and probably judge as unworthy. The galley kitchen had cream cabinets, a small refrigerator, a cheerful yellow tea kettle on the range, and a table for two. A charcoal couch littered in yellow throw pillows and a handmade blanket faced a small TV. Behind the couch was a queen-sized bed covered with a tan duvet, flanked by two nightstands. A bookshelf overflowed with textbooks and paperbacks, and the windowsills housed dozens of plants.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
