He’d wanted to have time to go home and shower, but the unloading process had taken longer than he’d expected, and just when he was getting everything tidied up, the poinsettia delivery had come and he’d helped with that, too. There’d been an afternoon rush on trees—it seemed a few people had taken the day off from work due to the previous night’s snow, and were taking advantage of the time to decorate. He and Laurel were run off their feet all afternoon, and even after they’d closed at quarter after five, because of a few late stragglers, there’d been cash to ring off and things to stow and tidy before they could leave for the day.

There was no time to go home and change. Not that he couldn’t show up at the Sugarbush this way; the place was super-casual and counted on its post-work traffic. It was more because of Amy. He didn’t want her to see him fresh from an afternoon’s labor. His knitted hat had flattened his hair and he knew his jeans were dirty from being around the trees all afternoon. But he had no choice.

He parked a block away—Main was busy tonight—and headed to the diner, breathing in the scent of fresh snow and smiling at the Christmas lights adorning the street lamps. With only a few weeks to the holiday, every storefront and home was decorated in some way—twinkling lights, lush wreaths, evergreen boughs, and painted windows. In other years, the sight had made him feel incredibly lonely and isolated, but this year he found himself anticipating the holiday. It was dark by the time he reached the diner, but he stepped inside to a brightly lit, colorful display of Christmas cheer, right down to the carols being played over the sound system—barely audible over the cacophony of voices.

Amy was already there. He caught sight of her at a small booth about half way down the left wall, a glass of soda in front of her as she stared at her phone. Lord, she was pretty. Her hair curled around her shoulders in tumbling waves, and the slender girl he remembered now had the delicious curves of a woman. The sweater she wore had a floppy sort of neck that seemed to cradle her chin without the tight constriction of a turtleneck. And here he was in a flannel shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stand her up over it.

She looked up and caught him staring at her, and he felt the strange zing again, the same one he’d felt at lunch when their fingers had touched. Wasn’t that inconvenient?

He made his feet move forward and slid into the booth across from her. “Sorry if I’m a bit late. And a bit scruffy. I didn’t have a chance to go home.”

“Busy day, huh?” She smiled easily at him, and picked up her glass and took a drink through the white straw.

“Crazy. We seriously just left. I think last night’s snow put everyone in a holiday mood.”

“I suppose.” Her brows wrinkled together, and she laughed a bit. “Hang on.” To his surprise, she stood a little, leaned across the table, and rubbed her thumb over his cheek. “It’s sticky!”

Heat rushed to his cheeks, flustered by her touch and embarrassed by the fact she’d caught him with dirt on his face. “Damn. It’s probably pitch from the trees.”

“Let me,” she suggested, and she dipped a paper napkin in her water glass and then rubbed it over his skin. “There. That’s better.” She sat back, then handed him a menu. “So what’s good here?”

He didn’t even open it, but instead sat there wondering how she could act as if nothing had just happened. Oh, the touch was innocent enough. Platonic, even. But it had been important to George. Occasionally Laurel teased him, but this . . . this was the first time he’d been touched by a woman in a very long time—even if there was nothing sexual about it. It still felt intimate.

“Everything’s good,” he got out. “But I don’t know what you like, so I can’t really make any suggestions.”

She looked at his closed menu. “You don’t have to look, I suppose.”

He didn’t want to tell her that over the years, he’d tried a lot of the Sugarbush offerings simply by accepting the charity of others. Sometimes it had been a meal specially purchased, but more often than not it was someone’s leftovers boxed up to go home. Either way, he’d had a lot of hot meals courtesy of the Sugarbush’s large portions.

It wasn’t that he was really embarrassed, exactly, because with the Gallaghers’ help he’d pulled himself out of that life. But to say there wasn’t a little bit of pride at stake would be a lie. “My go-to items are either the meatloaf and mashed potatoes or a club sandwich and fries. They use real turkey, none of that deli sliced stuff. But since I had a sandwich for lunch, I’ll probably go with the meatloaf.”

She opened the menu and scanned the items. “There’s split pea soup. I haven’t had that in years.”

He nodded. “They use yellow peas, not green, and big chunks of potato, ham, and carrots. I think it comes with a mini loaf of French bread.” He grinned. “I like to think of it as the porridge of the dinner hour.”

She frowned and tilted her head.

“You know,” he explained, “it sticks to your ribs.”

A waitress came around and they placed their orders. Once she was gone again, an awkward silence fell that George didn’t know how to fill. He’d asked her not to talk about the past, but that didn’t leave them with a lot of options. Ian was the main thing connecting them.

The waitress came back with his drink and he took a moment to sip and scramble for a topic.

“So,” he finally said, “what are you doing now? Last time I saw you, you’d just graduated and the world was your oyster.”

She fiddled with her straw. “So we’re talking about me, now? Does that technically qualify as the past?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Only if it makes you uncomfortable or you don’t want to talk about it. It’s only fair.”

Her gaze softened as she looked at him. “Deal,” she said softly. “Well, the short version is I did my masters in HR, started working at a little company in Hoboken, then I got married. Then I got divorced, moved back to Brooklyn, got a new job at a bigger company in Manhattan, and that’s where I am.”

“That really is the short version.”

She shrugged. “It’s not very exciting.”

He doubted that. A woman as pretty and vibrant as her? And her summary prompted more questions than it provided answers. “Do you like your job? Plan on staying there?” He really wanted to ask about her marriage, but figured it might be a bit on the too-personal side.

“It’s okay. I’m good at it. The company’s decent. For the most part, the people are, too. I don’t get out of bed dying to get to work, but I also don’t hate my job.”

“But you must like being close to your family.”

“I do. What’s left of it.” Her cheeks instantly colored. “Oh dammit, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I have my own issues where the family is concerned that have little to do with Ian, really.”

But the words had hit their mark. The Mercks had had twins and then no more children. George tried not to feel responsible, but he did just the same. He’d promised to look out for Ian, and instead he’d got him killed. Time and the few counseling sessions he’d had helped him to see that he couldn’t go back and change the past. He’d accepted that what was done was done. He hadn’t yet figured out how to stop the guilt, though. Or the memories from intruding when he least wanted them to.

“George?”

The touch of her fingers on his brought him back to the present. To his surprise, his food was in front of him, steam rolling off it and smelling delicious. But he hadn’t even registered that the waitress had returned, he’d been so deep in his thoughts.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

He dipped his fork into his potatoes, tried them, found them unusually tasteless. “You . . .” He scrambled once again to find a way to put the focus on her. “No kids?”

“No,” she said quietly, and she focused all her attention on buttering her bread. “I discovered I can’t have children.”

That bombshell was sufficient to clear his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, Amy. Is that what happened with your marriage?”

She nodded, then broke off a crust of bread. “Yeah. Well, some of it. We’d been trying a while, and things weren’t going well. It was a lot of pressure, and it took a toll on our relationship, not to mention our finances. Right around the time I found out I couldn’t have kids, I discovered he’d been seeing someone else.”

“Rat bastard,” George grumbled, and then felt pleased when she choked out a laugh.

“I might have called him that a time or two,” she replied. “But truthfully, his affair was a symptom of a bigger disease, not the disease itself. I’m not blaming myself,” she rushed to assure him. “He made his choices. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that things were already a mess.”

“So he moved on, and you moved back to Brooklyn.”

She nodded, tasting her soup. “And he and the other woman have a couple of kids now and a dog and . . . yeah. This soup is fantastic, by the way.”

So she’d lost her hopes for a family and a husband all at once, and she was now casually commenting on the soup. He knew the tactic well. Make it sound like no big deal when it was a big deal indeed.

And with her revelation, he also realized that her parents, Ian’s wonderfully kind and warm parents, would never have any grandchildren. Amy wouldn’t have kids of her own and she wouldn’t ever be an aunt.

It was hard not to feel responsible for it all. He’d made the wrong call, broken his promise to bring Ian back in one piece. And when he’d come home, he’d been too much of a coward to go to Ian’s family and apologize. To admit out loud what he knew in his heart. It was his fault.

“George?”

He shook his head, realizing he’d blanked for the second time. “This probably wasn’t a good idea,” he said, his voice rough. “You were right. You haven’t asked any questions but the past can’t really be avoided, can it?” He fumbled to reach for his wallet, drew out a twenty, and dropped it on the table. “I’m sorry, Amy. You want to know what happened to Ian, and all I can say is I didn’t protect him like I promised. You want a place to put the blame, put it on me.” All their lives would have been so different if he hadn’t told Ian to stay put.

“Don’t go. Please, George . . .”

But he stood and shrugged on his jacket. “I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry. This is too hard.”

He left her sitting there, her lips parted in surprise and her eyes wide with confusion. What would she think if she knew the whole truth? Ugh, he was such a mess. He jogged to the truck and jumped inside, then drove a little too fast down Main before turning onto Bridge. He had to get home. Away from people, away from everything. He needed to just be for a while. Slow down his breathing, be calm.

Once he got inside, he went to the cupboard and took out a glass, then filled it with water. His throat burned for a whisky right now, but he didn’t keep the stuff in the house, and for a very good reason. It hadn’t taken much for him to understand that he’d self-medicated when he’d first come home, and it had contributed to his downward spiral. Maybe Amy had set him off tonight; maybe it had been the most difficult day he’d had in a long time. But he wasn’t ever going back to being the shell of a man he’d been after he was discharged. Instead he went into the bathroom and took a hot shower, then got into bed and put in a CD Willow had given him to help him relax. He hadn’t quite got up the gumption to actually attend one of her yoga classes at her new studio, and he couldn’t afford the extravagance, anyway. But he’d accepted the CD and found that it helped when he was having a hard time settling.

And he thought of Amy, what she’d lost, how pretty she was, how he’d been a dumbass fool to kiss her all those years ago and a bigger fool tonight for running out.

She deserved better. And she’d already been disappointed once in her life. He wasn’t about to make things worse.

When he woke, hours later, it was still pitch black outside. He looked at the clock—4:00 a.m. He’d gone to sleep so early that he was up and fully rested.

Last night’s dinner played through his mind and he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d run out on her, leaving her with food, the bill . . . sure he’d thrown money on the table, but he was ashamed of his actions. There were days he felt as if he’d come so far and had a good handle on life, and then other days where it seemed to kick him in the teeth again and all he could do was react rather than be in control. Maybe Laurel was right. Maybe he did need more counseling. But accessing it was proving harder than he had anticipated, and the VA doctor’s solution had been to put him on meds to help with his symptoms.

Truth was, despite jumping up yesterday when Amy had asked, he was pretty sure he did have PTSD, though no one had come right out and diagnosed it. When he’d got his shit together and got this job and an apartment, he figured he was on his way to handling it on his own. When days like yesterday happened, he wasn’t sure “on his own” was a good enough strategy.

He got up and dressed, then poured a bowl of cereal and ate it standing over the sink. He took his daily pill and knew that the one thing he had to do today was find a way to apologize to Amy.

It wouldn’t be light for hours yet, but he knew exactly what he could give her as a peace offering.

* * *

Amy woke and stared at the ceiling as sunlight filtered through the blinds. Last night had been unexpected. For one, she should have never rubbed that pitch off of George’s face. He’d frozen beneath her touch and for a few moments he’d stopped breathing. She’d struggled to remain casual, as if there weren’t these strange undercurrents running between them, but it hadn’t been wariness that had made him freeze. She was sure of it. The vibe between them wasn’t awkward—it was aware.

Then she’d made that dumb comment about her family and he’d instantly backed away. There’d been moments, too, that he’d gone somewhere else in his mind. Did the memories still haunt him? The last thing she wanted was to make it worse. Could she let her questions go? For his sake?

She flopped over in the bed and pulled the covers to her chin. Each time she asked herself that question, she came up with the same answer. Avoiding the issue wouldn’t actually help him at all. He had to deal with his feelings. It had taken her two years of therapy to be able to put her own insecurities and issues to rest, and even now she had moments it was difficult. She just knew how to handle it better. George, she reminded herself, had spent years living on the street. She could only assume that self-blame and unworthiness were two emotions he’d dealt with daily. A person didn’t get over that overnight.

She finally crawled out of bed and headed for the shower, still filled with more questions than answers. While the cottage was nice, and certainly well-kept, she didn’t find it particularly homey and certainly not very festive. Today she’d give George a break. Instead, she might wander down Main Street and do some shopping. While most of her gifts were bought already, there was nothing like a little retail therapy to give a girl a boost.

Cheered by her plans, she dressed in her favorite skinny jeans, boots, and a tunic-style sweater that gently cradled her curves and, in her opinion, made her look a little taller than she was. She did her hair and makeup, and made sure her phone and wallet were in her bag. With a satisfied sigh, she opened her front door and—

Smelled the pungent, sweet scent of spruce and pine, all in the form of a lush, green wreath hanging on her front door.

She didn’t need to see the tell-tale red ribbon to know it was from George. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out this was his way of making an apology. She closed the door gently behind her and then stood staring at the gorgeous creation. He somehow knew how to blend the different kinds of evergreen into a perfect combination of color and fullness. It was hung on the door with some sort of a brass magnet in the shape of a knob.

The wreath also took the front step of the little cottage and suddenly transformed it into something Christmassy.

She blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes. Such a small gesture; it shouldn’t affect her this way. The truth of the matter was she was always the person doing little things for others rather than being the recipient. Quite often Amy felt invisible, or at least taken for granted. She baked cookies for staff members. She picked up flowers for her mom, or candles in a friend’s favorite scent. She liked doing those things, but the same consideration and thought wasn’t often reciprocated. George’s small gift was actually a very big deal in the overall scheme of things.

She didn’t want to pressure him, though, so she locked the door behind her and headed downtown. She’d find a way to thank him later.

The sun was out and once she parked she gained a better appreciation for the town. Darling was quaint, with an old-fashioned vibe blended with a younger, funky feel. The vibrant colors of The Purple Pig and the Fisher Creek Yoga studio next door brightened the street, and while other buildings were more traditional in their main colors, the same didn’t necessarily hold true with their doors and shutters. She spotted greens, deep reds, bright blues. The flower shop sported a unique door, painted in a distressed red and with a heart-shaped window in the top third. She passed Pen 2 Paper, a book and stationery store, a lawyer’s office, and a large brick building that she realized was the bank.

Across the street was a walkway that traversed a long stretch of park. A sign quietly announced it as the Darling Green, and she could see a little bridge beyond, crossing the creek. Snow clung to the branches on the trees, and with the rampant Christmas decorating that had been going on, the entire effect was festive.

She stopped at The Purple Pig and got a green tea, then went for a walk along the Green, enjoying the fresh air and the scenery. She understood why George liked it here. It didn’t matter that it was small, with only a few important intersections. It wasn’t far to either Montpelier or Burlington, when it came right down to it. She was sure a good part of the population commuted to either city, but preferred small town living. It was the same in city neighborhoods, like where she lived. Families knew each other. There was a sense of community and connection.

Once she’d ambled along to her heart’s content, she popped into a few shops to browse. The F Bomb was advertising a Christmas Explosion of Savings—everything 25 to 50 percent off. She frowned, staring at the pastel and lace curtains in the window, wondering at the disparity between the name and the appearance of the store. She couldn’t resist a step inside, and was immediately immersed in a bouquet of scents as bowls and boxes of fizzy bath bombs filled every surface—fizzy being the “F” word, she assumed. She grinned and bought herself two, both in the shape of cupcakes. Then she bought a little assorted box that she’d tuck into her “emergency” cupboard. There was always a last-minute invite to a birthday or shower, or even just a dinner that required a hostess gift.

Back outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air, leaving the heavy perfumes of the soap shop behind.

At the bookstore she bought a hand-painted thank you card for George. She couldn’t keep showing up at the garden center every day; it was his place of work and she didn’t want to be a pest. She also grabbed a little booklet at the cash register that contained a history of the area, including the legends of the town’s Kissing Bridge. A little boutique was set on a corner, tucked away and private, but inside she splurged on a butter-soft pashmina that rivaled anything on Fifth Avenue and for a fraction of the price.

But it was the General Store that stole her heart. It sported a deli counter, grocery basics like milk, bread, and some canned goods, touristy souvenirs, seasonal decorations, and what her parents would call a “dry goods” section, with clothing essentials like underwear, socks, and baby onesies.

It was charm and practicality all rolled into one, and it was easy to tell the locals from the visitors just by listening to the cadence of the speech. There was a familiarity and warmth to the way neighbors spoke to each other that made her smile.

While she’d enjoyed The Purple Pig’s delightful offerings, today she stepped up to the deli counter and ordered a thick pastrami sandwich with a side of kettle-cooked potato chips. A can of soda rounded out her order, and when she left the store she crossed the street to the Green and found a vacant picnic table. It was cold with her gloves off, but she didn’t care. It felt positively indulgent to browse and then sit in the park—snow and all—to eat one of the most delicious sandwiches she’d had in her life.

“Room for one more?”

She swiveled around at the voice behind her. George stood there, dressed in a puffy jacket and the knitted hat that he always seemed to have on, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Heat crept up her neck; her mouth was jammed full of pastrami in a most unladylike manner, and instead of trying to speak around it, she raised one hand in supplication.

He laughed. He’d smiled occasionally since they’d met again, and even had a low-grade chuckle, but his laugh did something to her insides that she wasn’t comfortable with. She couldn’t be attracted to him. It would be such a huge mistake. But the twinkle in his eyes as he sat across from her didn’t lie. In another life she would smile back, flirt a little. But this was George, who admittedly had a ton of baggage weighing him down, and a history with her family that was fifteen years late in being resolved. And he was laughing at her.

She chewed and swallowed and used a paper napkin to wipe her lips. “Sorry. You caught me with my mouth full.”

“So I see. Am I intruding?”

“Of course not.” She still wanted answers. And now she could say thank you in person. “I saw the wreath this morning. It’s beautiful, George.”

His gaze sobered. “I was rude last night. And you said the cottage didn’t have any decorations, so . . .”

“Apology accepted,” she offered softly, meeting his gaze. “I know this is hard for you.”

“I wish it weren’t,” he confessed, and her heart softened even further.

“Would it . . . would it be easier for you if I left?”

“Yes.”

The immediate answer hurt. And she didn’t want to go yet, really. She was enjoying her time away from home. She felt . . . lighter somehow. Despite their rocky beginning, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye and leave George behind forever. He was the last person to see her brother. He was the key to the closure she so desperately needed. Just being near George was like being close to Ian again in a strange way.

“But I don’t want you to go.”

Her fingers tightened around her soda can. “Really?”

He nodded. “I was thinking about it this morning . . . I was up early, making your wreath, thinking about last night at the diner. I know I’m not being fair to you, Amy. I should have talked to you years ago. You deserved to know. Your family deserved answers. I just didn’t want to see the look in your eyes when I told you what happened. I didn’t want you to think badly of me somehow.”

She took a deep breath and told him the truth. “Ignoring us for fifteen years didn’t exactly endear you to us.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. I was a mess, Amy. A real mess, and it just kept getting worse and worse until I couldn’t have made it to New York if I’d tried.”

“I figured as much. It has to be bad when the end result is homelessness, you know? And I’m not judging, I promise. Truth is, it’s a shit situation all around. Us with questions, you dealing with . . . everything.” She reached over and put her hand on his arm, feeling the strength there even beneath the thick jacket. “I just can’t help feeling like maybe we can help each other. Finally lay some of those ghosts to rest.”

He let out a big breath. “I’m not sure that’ll happen, but I’ll talk. Hard as it is, I tried running away long enough and it didn’t work. Starting over means facing all of it. And if you hate me forever, I’ll live with that somehow.”

“I could never hate you, George.”

Their gazes caught. Her hand was still on his arm, and he slid his elbow back until his gloved fingers covered hers. “I hope not,” he said quietly. “But I’ll understand if you do.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, until George slid his fingers away. “You should finish that sandwich before it freezes,” he noted, nodding at her waxed paper. “I didn’t mean to disturb your lunch.”

“It’s too much for me. Do you want some?”

But he shook his head. “Can’t get in the habit of you bringing me lunch every day, can I? I already ate, anyway. Packed myself a lunch from home. I’m just running an errand for Laurel. I should be getting back.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help the disappointment she felt at his words. They’d really connected just now, and not in the flutters-in-the-stomach way from before. This was different. The park didn’t seem the right place for a confessional, though, so she wrapped up the end of her sandwich and tucked it into a little bag to take home.

“I’m free tonight if you want to, I don’t know, talk,” he said, sliding his legs out from beneath the table. “My apartment isn’t much, but you’re welcome to come over.”

Amy tried to keep her mouth from dropping open. She hadn’t expected him to invite her into his space, and she wasn’t about to turn it down. “Sure,” she replied. “Give me the address and a time and I’ll be there.”

He grabbed one of her spare napkins and she handed him a pen from her purse. He scribbled on his address and handed it back. “Put that in your phone, though all you have to do is turn right at the end of your street, go past the stop sign, and turn left at the next intersection. There’s only one apartment building there, and I’m unit seven.”

“Should I text you first?”

He chuckled again, the lines in his face smoothing. “Well, you could if I had a cell phone.” He took the pen back from her fingers, and the napkin, too. “I do have a landline. Here.” He jotted down the number.

No cell phone? Who did that in this day and age? And then she was reminded again that George was a man living with the bare necessities, and what most people defined as necessities were really conveniences with a disproportionate amount of importance.

“Seven sound okay?” she asked, tucking everything into her bag.

He nodded. “Just . . . well, it’s a bachelor pad. I don’t have much for furniture or anything.”

But he was willing to let her in, and she knew that had to be a big step, a show of faith on his part. “Hey, it’s warm and dry, right? Decorating is overrated anyway.”

“Sure. If you say so.” He smiled again. “Okay, I really have to get back now or Laurel’s going to be wondering where I am.” He winked. “Not like she can text me, huh?”

“I think that’s just you playing mysterious,” she said, surprised at the flirty tone in her voice. Where had that come from?

He angled his head and stared at her. “Mysterious is not a word I’d use to describe me. There are lots of others, but I’m trying to move past them.”

“I didn’t mean to tease.”

“It’s okay,” he nodded. “In fact, it’s good. Not many people are, well, comfortable enough with me to crack a joke.” His gaze held hers and warmed. “Actually, it makes me feel kind of normal.”

Oh, there were things about George that were normal right enough. And in the last few days, the tough barrier he’d put around himself was weakening. It made him more approachable, and more than a little alluring.

“I’ll see you later, then. Should I bring food? I’m not a great cook like my mom, but I can manage to put something together.”

He smiled. “You don’t need to keep feeding me, but I’ll confess, I’m a horrible cook. If you happened to bring food, I’d be happy to eat it.”

“It’s a deal.”

George turned to walk away and took half a dozen steps before she called him back. “George?”

He turned.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, serious again. “I know my showing up here hasn’t been how you planned to spend the days leading up to the holiday. I appreciate your . . . effort.”

He nodded again and strode off through the snow.