Christmas Candy(8)

He clears his throat. “Candace, right?”

“Right.” She winks at me over her shoulder. “Nice to finally meet you again. I saw you walking Olive home last night. Is there something going o—”

Oh, shit. “Welp, gotta go do the bingo.” I hurry past the two of them and down the middle row. Despite my quick steps, the embarrassment stays with me. I decide that murdering Candace will be next on my itinerary right after Christmas bingo.

“I’ll help.” Hank catches up.

“No need.” I survey the room of about thirty people. The game won’t take long, and then I can get back to my studio for the late morning session.

“I figure I should get involved, give back, all that. You know?” His tone seems genuine. “And this sounded like as good a time as any.”

“There are plenty of other places where you could volun—” I squeak as Grampa Barnes swats my ass when I pass him.

“Hey.” Hank points at him. “Hands to yourself.”

Grampa Barnes furrows his wrinkly brow. “I’m an octogenarian, sonny, but I’d be happy to take you outside and teach you a lesson about how to speak to your elders.”

“Is there a problem, Olive?” Mrs. Black calls from the back of the room. Her irritated-teacher tone causes my hackles to rise.

“No, we’re fine.” I jerk my chin toward the front bingo table. “Just heading up.”

Hank leans over and puts his face in Grampa Barnes’s. “Hands to yourself, old timer, or I’ll tell them to cut your chocolate pudding supply.”

“Why you little—”

“Thanks for saying that, Mr. Barnes.” Hank raises his voice to cover Grampa Barnes’s angry stammering. “Happy to be here.”

Mrs. Black flicks her wrist, directing me to get on with it. I hurry to the bingo table. Did Hank just defend my “honor” or something? Why does that thought make me feel warm all over?

“Black licorice, black licorice, black licorice,” I mutter under my breath as I turn to face the elderly crowd.

“Licorice?” He stands next to me, his hand on the crank for the ball cage.

“Nothing. Just grab a ball.”

“Excuse me?” He smirks and spins the crank and the balls click, click, click against the silver cage.

“You know what I mean.” I do my best to smile at the rows of seniors and ignore a grinning Candace at the back of the room.

“Here.” Hank hands me a ball.

“O-45,” I call out, and the game begins.

A low hum of chatter erupts and Mrs. Black begins playing the upright piano near the sunny front doors. The jaunty Deck the Halls tune sets the holiday mood as Hank and I work together calling out numbers.

“How often do you volunteer here?” he asks.

“Once a week.” I call out the next number.

“That’s nice of you.”

“It’s part of the gig. Being a business owner means giving back where you can.”

“In that case, I want to take a page out of your book.”

“Like I said before, there are lots of other places you can spend your time.” I didn’t need him in my life any more than he already was.

He hands me another ball, this time his fingers brush against mine for a little longer than before. It sends a thrill through me, even though I try to ignore it. Why does he have to smell so good? Like clean and masculine with a hint of something sweet from his shop? It’s wrong for a man to smell delicious.

Black licorice, black licorice.

“Can you call that number again, dear?” Mrs. Carmichael adjusts her enormous bifocals. “I couldn’t hear it over my cats. They meow something terrible when they’re hungry.”

I glance around at the cat-free common room. “Sure. I-14.”

“Thank you.” She stares at her upside down bingo card.

“I wanted to ask you something last night, but I couldn’t quite work up the nerve.” His fingers linger against mine again as he hands me the next ball.

“What?” My voice comes out breathy as I call out the number. We should have had a bingo by now, but I’ve learned everything takes a little longer at the senior center.

He leans over, his warm breath tickling my ear. “I was wondering what your favorite candy is.”

Goosebumps break out along my neck and arms as I snatch the ball from his hands and announce the next number.

“I don’t like candy.” I glance at him. He’s watching me, eating me up with his eyes. Problem is, I can’t say the sensation is unpleasant. Quite the opposite.

“Come on. Everyone likes candy.”

“I don’t.” His nearness is throwing me off, and I stutter out the next number.