“I’m so sorry,” I say, voice tight with regret and general awkwardness as he eases inside, dwarfing the designed-for-short-people space. He starts to stand, but I reach out and touch his arm. “Don’t. You’ll hit your head.” I snatch my hand away, ignoring the heat flooding my fingertips. I haven’t touched him—haven’t gotten close enough—since last New Year’s Eve. The unexpected jolt of chemistry makes me stammer as I add, “S-sit down. Let me check you out. I have a first-aid kit in my backpack, but we can head back to the house for more supplies if we need to. Or to the hospital.”
“No, no hospital,” he says, perching on the stool and lifting his face to mine, reminding me that he’s truly a pleasure to look at.
Even with an angry red welt blooming on his cheekbone, he’s stupidly handsome. Those thick black curls, clever green eyes, and that nose that is exactly the right size to balance his high forehead and strong chin…
“Don’t you think?” he asks, making me blink.
“Sorry, I was thinking about your eyes.” I wince. “Your eye, I mean. Your eye, and how glad I am I didn’t shoot it out.”
His lips lift at the edges, but not in the smug way that drives me crazy. “And I was saying that I won’t turn you in. If we go to hospital, I’ll say I accidentally shot myself, spare you the possible assault charges.”
“Well, thank you, but I don’t think I’d get in too much trouble if you told the truth. You were trespassing on my property.” I nod toward the card table. “And I’m using chalk pellets, which are a lot softer than rocks. So hopefully…” I lean down, taking the lantern by the handle and lifting it closer to his cheek. I skim my fingers lightly over the skin, which already appears less puffy than it did a minute ago. Satisfied—and more than a little relieved—I shift my gaze to meet his, and whisper, “I think you’re going to live, Mr. Beverly. And retain full function of both your eyes.”
“Thank goodness,” he whispers back, making the hair on my neck prickle beneath my scarf. “Now why don’t we go have a coffee somewhere warm and talk about how best to handle your dodgy fellow, Miss Billings. My treat.”
I stand, putting some much-needed distance between us. “Thanks, but I’m going to stick with this plan. But you should probably go before you scare him off if you haven’t already. He’s used to it being just me, standing on my front porch, yelling at him to put on some damned clothes while he giggles like a madman.”
Lawrence scowls. “You should have called the police the first time that happened.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I bet you would have loved that. A juicy local news story about the pervert on Gramp’s Farm, right in the thick of the Christmas rush. Bet you would have had a banner year.”
“I already had a banner year. As did you, from what I hear. What is it the cowboys say?” he asks, before continuing in a terrible Southern drawl. “I think there’s enough room in this town for the both of us.”
“That’s there ain’t room in this town for the both us,” I correct. “And I’m not sure there is. I mean, it was fine this year—”
“And last year,” he cuts in.
“And last year,” I grudgingly admit, “but if you’d been here during the real estate crash, you would realize that selling something most people consider a luxury item isn’t always easy. When you’re short on grocery money, you’re not going to spend eighty bucks or more to go cut down your own Christmas tree in a pastoral location. My grandparents and I had a few really lean years. If things hadn’t turned around when they did, we could have lost the farm. So…I worry.”
“You don’t have to worry, Lucy,” he says gently. “A financial crisis isn’t something that happens every day. I truly think we’re both going to be all right.”
“Well, I don’t,” I say, bristling.
“But is that really because you’re concerned about the competition? Or because you have a problem with me, as a person?”
“I can’t do this right now.” I start to take a step back, but he stops me with a hand, wrapping his long fingers around mine. I took my mittens off to aim the slingshot, so my skin is bare against his, sending memories rushing through me.
Memories of how good his touch made me feel, and how much I’ve been dying for him to touch me again, even if he is a jerk of the first order.
Only he isn’t being a jerk now…
“Please. Let’s keep talking,” he says. “I like talking to you, and I’d appreciate your advice.”
“About what? How not to get shot in the eye? Easy. Don’t sneak up on me.” I try to pull my hand away, but he holds on tighter. Not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough to make me remember other things I don’t want to remember.