Chapter 2

If someone had searched my brain in order to create the perfect guy for me, this is who they would have come up with.

I swallow—where did all my saliva go?—and Grampa’s voice forces me to stop staring.

“There you are, my boy. This is my grandson, Finn.” Gramps’ introduction is made with the usual puff to his chest and warmth to his voice that never gets old. “Finn, this is Nelson…uh…sorry, son, I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Um. Freeman.” He steps closer and holds out a square hand with short, thick fingers and little tufts of hair on the knuckles. “Nelson Freeman.” His handshake is firm, but not crushing, and the expression on his face is serious, but not standoffish.

“Finn Lovett.” There’s a breathiness to my voice I desperately hope he won’t notice, and I shoot him my widest, most welcoming smile. “Please, have a seat.”

His hand lingers in mine for a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary, and when he withdraws, my palm feels cold and empty. I swallow a whimper.

Grampa knits his bushy, grey eyebrows together. “Freeman? Did you say your name was Freeman?” He sits in his usual spot with a discomforted groan. “Sorry about making a blasted noise. The old knees are creakier than they used to be.”

The flicker of a smile tugs the corners of Nelson Swoonworthy Freeman’s mouth and I have to turn away before I squeak or climb onto his lap and stick my tongue down his throat. Instead, I busy myself with the coffee and set Grampa’s mug on the table in front of him.

“Thank you, Finnster.” He lays a work-hardened hand on my check. “I couldn’t manage without him, you see,” he says to our guest. Then he narrows his eyes and pulls off the scrunchy I used this morning to get my unruly hair out of my eyes. My wild curls bounce over my ears and fall over my eyes.

“Don’t wear your hair up like that,” he grumbles. “It looks like a rat’s nest. How many times do I have to tell you?” Grampa turns to Nelson. “Finn has gorgeous hair, dontcha think? He got those lovely ginger locks from his mother’s side. Us Lovetts aren’t anywhere near that colorful.” He chortled. “Don’t you agree he’s lovely, son?”

Nelson lets his eyes wander up and down my body. His cheeks pink under all that fabulous facial hair, making him even more adorable than before. How that’s even possible? “Y-yes, Mr. Lovett. Lovely.”

I try not to squirm under his gaze as I silently curse myself for throwing on my most oversized comfy sweater that reaches halfway to my knees, and thigh-high, knitted socks this morning…and nothing else. In my defense, I had no way of knowing Grampa would rescue the man of my dreams from the cold December rain before lunch.

He doesn’t seem to mind my outfit, though, if the way his eyes linger on my thighs is something to go on. And if I stand a little straighter to make the sweater ride up so he can catch a glimpse of my thighs…well, only I know that.

“Would you like milk or sugar, Mr. Freeman?” I ask as I set down his coffee.

“N-Nelson, please. And no, black is fine.”

“Aaaaah, a man after our own hearts, right, Finnster?” Grampa chuckles, loud as always.

“Right.” I join them at the round kitchen table that’s been the heart of our home for as long as I can remember. “I’d offer you cookies, but someone—” I jab my elbow in Grampa’s side “—ate them all and didn’t bother to throw away the trash.”

Grampa grumbles something deep in his chest and waves away my complaint with a flick of his hand.

Nelson smiles. A real, shy smile, and it makes my belly quivery and bubbly. “I…uh…” He stands. “Excuse me for just a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears from the kitchen and I raise an eyebrow at Grampa, who shrugs. Less than a minute later, Nelson returns, carrying a black tote bag with the words Have you tried turning it off and on again? printed in bold, electric blue letters. With a shy smile, he sits and takes a round tin from the bag.

“I…uh…have cookies.” He removes something from the top of the tin and shoves it in the tote bag, then he holds the tin out to me.

“You do?” Before I can take it, Grampa snatches it away with a happy hum.

I bump his shoulder with mine. “Behave.”

“Hah! Your Gramma tried teaching me that for nearly fifty years and didn’t succeed.” He pries off the lid and lets out an excited whoop. “Gingerbread!” He shoots Nelson a beaming smile, grabs a cookie, and promptly bites the head off the iced gingerbread man. “Fantastic,” he booms with his mouth full of cookie.