“Oh, definitely,” I assure him. I bite the inside of my cheek as I slide my hands back into my pockets. All at once, I’m reminded of lunch with my brother, and I have the sudden, visceral fear that Hunter will out me as one of the Little Haven teens who looked to Gray Smith like he was a god. “It was really only losers and weirdos who worshipped you back in high school. I, um, I would know. I was one of them.”
His eyes flick back to mine, and my breath catches at the top of my chest. There it is. The first time I’ve ever admitted out loud to Gray that I had a high school crush on him.
And then there’s everything I’m not saying, but my body is signaling despite my wishes. I can feel the flush of my cheeks, the slight swell of my breasts as I fight back my arousal. It’s the high school crush that never quite went away, and it’s back in full force despite all my logic.
“I’m flattered,” Gray says. “So, did that crush dissipate the minute I left for New York? Or did you have to hold back the desire to send me locks of your hair via Priority Express?”
I smile back, the tiniest tension giving way in my chest. “Oh, that crush dissolved as soon as I saw paparazzi footage of you eating a New York hot dog. Not flattering at all, bud.”
He snorts. But still, he holds my gaze for a moment longer. My cheeks continue to burn, and I’m struggling to keep my breaths deep and even.
“Well.” I clear my throat and brave a step in his direction. His cologne floods my senses all at once, nearly knocking me back with notes of smoke and teakwood and man. “I’m glad your DIY streak is coming out at Little Haven Inn’s benefit. I never left the town, but I do get what it’s like to want to prove you built something all on your own. My grandma might have started this place, but I want to make it really sing. Those hotel chains on the prowl…”
My voice fades off and I sigh.
“It feels good to have something that’s all your own, right?”
I nod, biting my tongue.
Gray steps forward, pointing up at the fresh beam we just replaced in the ceiling.
“Okay, so picture this,” he says. “Fairy lights strung from every beam. Trees decorated in poinsettias, placed here and here so they flank the guests as they come inside.”
He’s waving his hand in front of us, painting a picture I can already see in my mind’s eye. I have hardly stepped into this lifeless old barn since I inherited this place, but it’s already taking shape as a winter wonderland.
“Oh, my God, and Molly—” Gray grabs my elbow, sending sparks shooting through my forearm as he leads me toward the barn doors. “We can bring my dad’s old tractor in here and set up a photo station for the kids. Maybe Santa can sit on it and take pictures? It’ll be super charming and Southern and, if you wanted, I bet you could even charge for the photos.”
He’s already dragging me over to a new side of the barn. My heart has picked up speed at his descriptions, and even more as his grasp on my arm firms up.
“Wreaths on every wall,” he says. “Maybe a cider and cocoa station? Another opportunity to charge.”
He grins down at me, and I find myself grinning like an idiot right back. Gray turns then, his hand still lingering at my elbow.
“Mistletoe at the door,” he says softly. “Per tradition.”
“Per tradition.” I nod, the inside of my mouth thick and dry.
I’m already envisioning this place glowing with the soft amber of a million fairy lights. The scent of crisp apple cider drifting in the air, kids giggling, Christmas jazz playing over the loud speakers. And then Gray would find me under that mistletoe and…
There’s a buzz, and Gray shoves a hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone.
“Um, time for basketball,” he says, his face contorting in apology.
I can’t summon up the right response. I just nod and smile as he waves goodbye and heads back toward the inn.
CHAPTER SEVEN: GRAY
“Smith!” Mr. Bates announces my name to the gym as he strides over to the exit doors where I wait. He’s decked out in head to toe red and black, the colors I remember from my days representing Little Haven Basketball.
I’m surprised by how in his element he looks. In the professional world, basketball coaches start looking the same. A lot of them are ex-pros, all tall, all dominant personalities. When I’d met Mr. Bates back at the inn and learned he was coaching the high school team, my first impression was that he was a bit rotund and old.
Seeing him now, though, ruddy-cheeked and grinning as he strides my way, it feels all too clear this is where he belongs. When he stops his march toward me to pause and sternly bark out a command at a group of boys lifting weights in a corner, I have a sudden, vivid flashback to my own high school coach, Coach Oliver. God, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve thought of him.
“Our security team is going to think you’re trying to sneak a bomb in here dressed like that.” Mr. Bates raises an eyebrow before slapping me on the back.
I clear my throat and sheepishly take off my sunglasses, slipping them into the front pocket of my sweatshirt.
He’s not wrong. I came in here with my dark hoodie pulled up over my head, glasses on, neck trained down as I walked. This might be Little Haven, but I can’t shake an entire adulthood of keeping a low profile from the press, and the urge has been especially great since they’ve been hounding me over the Maxim Myers incident.