Sugar Plum Season. Mia Ross
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“’Course not.” Picking up the sign, he tucked it under his arm and motioned her past. “After you.”
The rough-and-tumble streets of Washington and New York had left her accustomed to fending for herself. Men didn’t typically defer to her this way, and she found his gentlemanly gesture charming. Southern boys, she mused as she walked through the studio. She could get used to this.
Out front, she stopped to the left of the door. “I thought he’d look best here, next to the window. What do you think?”
That got her a bright, male laugh, the kind that sounded as if it got plenty of use. “I’m about as far from a decorator as you can get. Lumber, saws, hammers, that’s me. You’re better off following your own gut on this one.”
His innocent comment landed on her bruised heart like a fist, reminding her of the last time she’d followed her gut—and the unmitigated disaster it had led her into. If only she’d kept to her original course instead of taking that shortcut, she’d still be on her way to becoming principal ballerina for an international company. Never again would she deviate from the plan, she promised herself for the hundredth time. Improvising had cost her everything.
Swallowing her exaggerated reaction to his advice, she focused on identifying the perfect location for her sign. Jason set it in place, and she considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “Jenna made him double-sided on purpose, and I want to make sure people get a good view of him from the sidewalk and the street. The idea is to draw them in so they’ll look at the other decorations and the playbill in the window. Try angling him this way.”
Demonstrating with her hands, she waited and then reassessed. “Now he’s too much toward the studio.”
After several more attempts, Jason plunked the sign on the paved walkway and rested an arm on top of his Cossack’s helmet. “You’re kidding, right? We’ve tipped this thing every way but upside down. You’re seriously telling me we haven’t hit the right spot yet?”
“There’s no point in doing something imperfectly,” she shot back in self-defense.
He gazed at her thoughtfully, and she got the eerie feeling he could see things she’d rather keep to herself. “That doesn’t sound like something someone our age would say. Who taught you that?”
“My mother. And she’s right, by the way. Perfection is the only goal for a balleri—ballet teachers.”
In a heartbeat, his confused expression shifted to one of sympathy, and he frowned. “You were gonna say ballerina, weren’t you?”
“I misspoke. Now, are you going to help me finish this, or should I do it myself?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “You don’t want folks feeling sorry for you, I get that. Your life’s taken a nasty turn, and I respect what you’re doing to get it back together.” Moving a step closer, he added, “But you’re here now, and you don’t have to do everything on your own anymore. Folks in Barrett’s Mill are real fond of your aunt and uncle, and they’re gonna want to help you, whether you like it or not.”
“Including you?”
Warmth spread through his features, burnishing the gold in his eyes to a color she’d never seen before. When he finally smiled, for the first time in her life, she actually felt her knees begin quivering. If he took it into his head to kiss her, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t have the strength—or the will—to stop him.
“Including me,” he said so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him.
Struggling to keep her head clear, she pulled her dignity around her like a shield. “That’s really not necessary. I’m very capable of taking care of myself, and I didn’t get where I am by letting people poke their noses into my life and tell me what to do.”
Mischief glinted in his eyes, and he chuckled. “Me, neither.”
Because of her size, Amy was accustomed to being misjudged, underestimated and generally dismissed by others. Sometimes it actually worked to her advantage, lulling people into a harmless perception of her that masked her relentless determination until she was ready to bring it out into the open. By then, it was too late for whoever had dared to step in between her and whatever she wanted.
But Jason Barrett, with his country-boy looks and disarming personality, didn’t seem inclined to follow along. Instead, he’d taken stock of her and had apparently come to the conclusion that she didn’t scare him in the least. She’d given it her best shot, and it had sailed wide. So far wide, in fact, that the only sensible thing left to do was admit defeat.
“Okay, you win. This time,” she added, pointing a stern finger at him in warning. “But Arabesque is my business, and things around here will be run my way. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tacking on yet another maddening grin, he went on. “But I’ve got an idea about how to balance this entrance display. If you’re done scolding me, would you like to hear it?”
The concept of someone her size hassling the brawny carpenter was absurd, and she got the distinct impression he was trying to get her to lighten up. Since he was bending over backward to be entertaining, she decided the least she could do was smile. “Sure. Go ahead.”
Propping the nutcracker in place against a shrub, he moved to the other side of the walkway that led to the studio’s glass front door. Holding out his arms, he said, “Imagine a nicely decorated Christmas tree over here. Then you could do narrow pillars with an arch over the top strung with lights and a sign telling people when the show is.”
“I don’t think Jenna has time to do another sign for me.”
“It’s just lettering,” he pointed out. “I’ll get some stencils and knock it out in no time.”
Squinting, she envisioned what he’d described. Since the sun went down so much earlier this time of year, people running errands on Main Street after work would be drawn to Arabesque, just the way she was hoping. They’d come over to check out the cheery display window and get a look inside the freshly redecorated studio. Not only would it boost attendance for The Nutcracker, it might gain her some new students. Profits were the name of the new game she was playing, and anything that had the potential to bring in customers was worth a try.
“I like it,” she announced. “When do you think you can have it done?”
“How’s Monday afternoon sound?”
She had no idea how much work was involved in what he’d described, but he sounded so confident, she didn’t even consider questioning the quick turnaround. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Plunging his hands into the front pockets of his well-worn jeans, he said, “I oughta warn you, it probably won’t be perfect. But I can promise you it’ll be good enough to do the job.”
“Like you?”
“And you.” Slinging the wooden soldier over his shoulder, he gazed down at her. “For most of us, that’s enough.”
“Not for me,” she assured him. “I don’t stop until whatever I’m doing can’t possibly be any better.”
“We’ve all got flaws, y’know. It’s what we accomplish in spite of ’em that makes us who we are.”
The last thing she’d have expected this morning was to find herself in a philosophical debate with a guy carrying a life-size nutcracker. “That’s a nice thought, but some of us are more imperfect than others. It keeps us from being our best.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause you’re meant to be something else.”
Clearly, he meant for his calm, rational explanation to make her feel better about her lingering injuries. He didn’t mention God by name, but the silver cross on the chain around his neck filled in the blanks nicely for her. While she respected his right to hold that faith, his comment sparked