Page 31 of The Humbug Holiday

I leaned against the wall, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to be in his sphere. The twinkling tree lights reflected in the window as he spoke in a low serious tone about the uncle who’d been like a surrogate father after his dad died. According to Joe, his uncle had taught him everything he knew about woodwork and fine craftsmanship.

Joe grunted as he pulled a second plank free. “Uncle Gary was a perfectionist. He noticed things no one else would—a strip of wood that wasn’t properly sanded or a slight discoloration in the finish. He wouldn’t pay me for crap work, so I learned the hard way to take the time to do shit right.”

“It’s a good policy,” I commented.

“Now I agree, but when I was a teenager, I didn’t always feel that way. I was late to hockey practice more than once because I had to redo a piece he claimed was unusable. He never raised his voice or got in my face…even when I came at him, full of hot air and bluster. Uncle Gary would just shrug and say, ‘Beauty lies in the details, Joey.’”

I grinned. “I like that sentiment. I’m pretty sure I’ve used it to describe catching a serial killer in one of my books.”

“You’re a sick fuck, Cam Warren.” Joe huffed, glancing up at me in amusement. “But my uncle lived by that motto. He was meticulous, soft-spoken, and Zen in his approach to work—and life. A nice counterbalance to my mom’s nervous chattering and Coach O’Toole’s rabid screaming on the ice. He’s been gone for a while, but I still miss him.”

“When did he pass away?”

“Five years ago this month. Heart attack.”

Fuck. He’d lost a lot that December. His job, his reputation…his mentor.

“I’m sorry,” I replied lamely. “Sounds like that was a very rough year.”

“Apt description. Now you know why I’m not a fan of the holidays. My life fell the fuck apart to the tune of ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and ‘Jingle Bells.’ Fun stuff.” Joe snorted sarcastically.

I set my hand on his back and rubbed a soothing circle between his shoulder blades, wishing I could say something other than “I’m sorry.” I was a writer, for fuck’s sake. I had an arsenal of pretty words and built-in platitudes I could make sound like poetry. Nothing came.

In fact, just the opposite occurred. I had an inexplicable urge to do something completely insane and share my own holiday-hating woes.

Screech.Nope. Not a good idea.

I massaged his neck and tousled his hair, then resumed my spot as sentry against the wall.

“Did you say your coach’s name was O’Toole?”

“Mmhmm. He was a scary motherfucker,” Joe drawled. “His voice was shot from years of screaming at teenagers, hoping one of them would turn into a damn prodigy.”

I chuckled lightly. “He must be related to Margaret O’Toole, the young bride killed an hour before her wedding.”

“Yeah, probably. Maybe a great great-great-aunt or something. There are a ton of O’Tooles in Fallbrook.” Joe sat on his heels and shot a sardonic lopsided smile my way. “I hate to break this to you, but none of them were alive a hundred and ten years ago, Cam.”

“Ha. Ha. They might have old family records, though.”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. I mean…do you have family photos or documents from 1912 laying around in your house?”

“No, but—”

“Your best bet is city hall.”

“I’ve already been there. And I scoured the library too.”

He stood quickly and dropped his tool into his apron. “If you’re here to get inspiration however you can, you should check out the cemetery too.”

He was in my space, mudding my senses with logic and body heat. I lost the thread of our conversation as desire zinged through my system like a renegade pinball. He hooked his thumbs under the elastic of my sweats and ghosted his lips over mine in a featherlight kiss.

I closed my eyes. “Yes…I—”

Ding dong.

Joe cocked his head curiously. “You expecting visitors?”

“No.” I pulled at a pocket on his apron. “Probably a solicitor. They’ll go away.”