she’d been thinking about him a lot. Granted, she’d had to move past her own “rules” and face some old demons in order to give him what he wanted for the facility. That had put her out of her comfort zone.
Funny how out of her comfort zone it seemed kind of...well, cozy and right.
But in the end everything would go back to normal—which was Hope looking after Hope and not fretting about everyone else. Not getting involved.
She suspected that kissing Blake was definitely something a girl wouldn’t walk away from without fretting on some level, so she nodded toward the boxes, breaking the spell of the moment while the music station shifted to a horrendous version of “O Holy Night.”
“We should probably put on the rest of the decorations. Are they in this box?”
The warm intensity of his eyes cooled and he stepped back. “Oh, right.” He opened the box and pulled out the bag that had ropes of red and green garland poking out of the top. “This is next.”
It was tacky and cheap and slightly gaudy to Hope’s artist’s eye. Still, it was his tree, his house. And having grown up with Gram she did hold the slightest remnant of knowledge that traditions were not to be messed with—especially on the holidays. She took the first mass of tinsel in her hands and began looping it around the tree in a precise scallop pattern while Blake held the end.
“You’re very exact.”
She frowned and adjusted a swoop of garland. “I like things balanced. If they’re imbalanced they have to be intentionally so, you know?”
“Not exactly. But you’re having fun with it, so go for it.”
He was teasing her now, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed.
Together they added ornaments to the tree—cutesy homemade types that were hand-painted or stitched: old-fashioned gingerbread men and knitted skates and bells, red and green boots with paperclips as blades, and gold-shot yarn bells with tiny brass jingle bells dangling from the centre, catching the light of the bulbs.
It was a long way from her red-and-white tree and the delicate glass balls that she had at home.
It was, she realized, a family tree. A tree with years of memories and love. And Blake was here alone. His brother was gone and he was stuck decorating the tree with a stranger.
Well, not exactly a stranger—not anymore. But definitely not family.
She wondered if the tree was up at Gram’s. Wondered what Beckett’s Run looked like, dressed for the holidays. Wondered if Gram had baked Hope’s favorite holiday cookies—the chocolatey ones in powdered sugar.
Good heavens. She was homesick.
“Are you all right?” Blake’s voice brought her back to earth and she realized she was standing holding an ornament, the string looped over her finger.
“Oh. Of course. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
She drew in a breath that was shakier than she liked. “It’s silly, really. I was just remembering Christmas in Beckett’s Run. No matter what was going on in our lives, we always went home for Christmas.”
“Good memories, then?”
She nodded. “Mostly.”
She hung the ornament and saw Blake was holding a small oval one in his hands. His face changed, a mixture of love and pain twisting his features. When he’d hung it gently on the tree she could see it was a photo frame, and when she stepped she closer realized it was black with a big red “C” on it—the logo of the Calgary Flames. Inside the frame was a picture of two boys in oversize jerseys, hockey sticks on the ice, grinning widely for the camera.
Blake and his brother, Brad. Eleven, maybe twelve years old. Blake without the jagged scar down the side of his face, before puberty hit full force. His twin, Brad, looking so much like Blake it was uncanny, but with something different around the eyes and mouth.
She touched her finger to Blake’s figure. “That’s you, right?”
“Not everyone could tell us apart.”
“It’s the eyes and the shape of your mouth. And you’re big as a barn door now, Blake...stands to reason maybe you were a little taller than Brad.”
“I was the better checker,” he said softly, “but Brad had faster hands.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He stared at the photo a while longer. “It is what it is. I miss him every day. But nothing will bring him back. I stopped making those sorts of wishes long ago. Now I just remember.”
“And put this ornament on the tree?”
Blake’s mouth twisted, and once more Hope noticed how the stiffness of his scar pulled his lips slightly. She wondered how horrible it must have been for him as a teen, dealing with that sort of disfiguration. Dealing with people’s reactions. It wasn’t much wonder he’d been curt with her when she’d arrived. The first thing she’d done was stare at him like he was some sort of freak.
But he wasn’t. He was the strongest man she’d ever met.
“There’s just one thing left to do,” he said, clearing his throat. “Put the angel on the top.”
He reached into the box and took out a rectangular carton. He opened the flap and carefully took out the most beautiful Christmas angel Hope had ever seen. A flawless porcelain face was framed by a coronet of hair the color of cornsilk; a white circlet atop her head was a halo. The dress was white silk shot with gold thread, and softly feathered wings flowed from the center of her back, the tips nearly reaching the hem of the dress. It was a work of art—a family heirloom.
“Do you want to do the honors?” he asked.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She put up her hands. “That’s gorgeous, Blake.”
“It’s been in the family a long time.”
“It’s your tree,” she said. “You should be the one to put it on.”
Blake disappeared to the kitchen and came back with a step stool. He put it on the floor and held out the angel. “It’s your tree, too,” he said.
“Blake...”
“Please?”
Her hands trembled as she took the delicate figure from his hands and stepped up on the stool. He stood beside her, and she was acutely aware of his shoulder next to her rib cage as she leaned forward and carefully placed the angel over the top bough of the tree. The cone inside the skirt slid over the pointed top and settled firmly into place as Hope let out the breath she’d been holding and turned around.
The step stool put her higher than Blake, so that his face was just below hers. He was standing close...so close she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint spiciness of his aftershave.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
