A Town Called Christmas

He took the red scarf off a hook and looped it around her neck, then let his fingers drift across the first buttons of her coat as if he meant to do them up for her.

She crossed her arms. Looked away. Defensive and evasive once more.

Grace popped her head into the entryway. “Good, you’re still here. Hold on just a sec.” She bustled away. “I’ll give you leftovers to take home, honey.”

“No!”

Grace returned, looking askance.

“I don’t need leftovers, Mom. Keep them for the men.” Merry gave Mike a nod. “Hot beef sandwiches for lunch.”

“Mmm. That sounds great.”

“At least tell me you’ll join us?” Grace inquired of her daughter.

“I’ll be working.” Merry explained for Mike’s benefit. “I’m running the family business, the tree farm and the little shop where we serve hot drinks, sandwiches and cookies. We get a spurt of sales from the last-minute customers, these final few days before Christmas.”

“If you’re sure you’ll be busy, I can send one of our Navy heroes down with a sandwich.” Grace twinkled her eyes at Mike. “You’d do that for Merry, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

She gave his shoulder a pat and said her good-nights, closing the inner door behind her.

Merry shrugged. “It’s a sandwich shop. I don’t need a homemade sandwich. But there’s no use arguing.”

He cheerfully agreed. “No use at all.”

The door opened again. Charlie, this time, blustering. “Didn’t intend to interrupt you two, but I just wanted to say good night. And to give my man, here, a word of advice.” He pumped Mike’s hand, leaning in to whisper in a not-very-hushed voice, “Look up.”

“Oh, for—” Merry broke off her exclamation and whirled away, reaching for the outer door as Charlie exited through the other.

Mike looked up. On a long loop of ribbon, a clump of mistletoe dangled beside the old-fashioned light fixture.

He reacted instantly. But while he had the honed reflexes of a fighter pilot, Merry had gained a good head start. She flung open the door.

The cold air slammed into Mike like a wall. His lungs instantly seized but he got the words out. “Don’t you want me to… kiss you?”

She hesitated at the threshold, shooting him a quick glance. “Not like this.” And then she was gone.

He followed her across the frosty planks of the front porch. The railings were hung with thick evergreen swags. Strings of bulbous red and green lights traced the columns and eaves, making the sky beyond the drifting snowflakes seem very black.

“Hold on a minute.” With his bare hands, he grabbed a shovel that had been left by the door and moved past Merry to clear the fresh snow from the front steps.

She stood at the top with her hands on hips, back swayed and stomach protruded. “Tsk. Where are your gloves?”

“In my pocket. In my coat.” He finished scraping. Snow clotted the corners. “In the house.”

“Go and put them on.”

“Promise you’ll wait?”

She gestured with her mittens. “What am I going to do—outrun you?”

He cocked his head. Curious. “You might try.”

She looked away, withdrawing again as she wrapped her unbuttoned coat around herself. “Go. You’re shivering.”

He took the steps two at a time, snatched his gear from the coat hooks and was back beside her before the vapor of her breath had dissipated. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he shrugged into his coat. “Don’t you want me to kiss you?”

“I answered.”

“Was that an answer? ‘Not like this?’” He didn’t put on his gloves. His fingertips were tingling, all right, but not solely from the cold. “Not like what?”

A frown puckered her lips. “Not with my parents pushing us together so obviously. Not with you leaving in only a week. Not when we’re both…pressured by the circumstances.”

He loomed over her, nudging a finger beneath her chin, making her look at him. He dropped the timbre of his voice to a conspiratorial level that was only partly joking. “What are these circumstances you speak of?”

She blinked. “You don’t know?”

“I feel like I’ve walked in to the second act of a play without a script.”

He could see her roll the words on her tongue, but she didn’t say them. Instead, she stood taller, lifting her chin away from his touch. “Nicky never told you about me?”

“He told me lots of things. Like how he used to call you Merrylegs, after the fat pony in Black Beauty. That he once hit you in the elbow with a rubber-band airplane and gave you a small scar. How proud he was that even though you were a successful executive in Chicago, you gave it all up to move home after your father’s health problems. And that you and the guy you lived with split up around the same time.” Mike had grown more serious, the last fact putting gravel into his voice. “Is that what you mean? Are you still brokenhearted?”

The cold air was no match for the block of ice that was suddenly lodged inside him. Was she aware that they were both on the rebound and therefore ripe for a foolish fling that would certainly be a mistake?

“I’m not brokenhearted,” she whispered.

“Me, neither.”

She licked her lips. “But I am…”

“Eminently kissable,” he said, and gathered her into his arms so she couldn’t run away again. “Even without the mistletoe.”

He put his cheek near hers. Taking his time. Feeling the warmth as their breath intermingled, which he could actually see happening. There were stars in her eyes, brighter than the ones that sequined the sky. Amazing.

The wait was excruciating, and delicious. That was not a word he’d used for anything but food before now, but it was right. Meredith was alluring, enchanting and delicious—even before he’d tasted her.

Finally she conceded. Her eyes flickered and she moved a fraction toward him with her lips.

He took her mouth with certainty, pressing a firm kiss against her chilled lips. For one heartbeat, she hesitated. Then her mouth softened and warmed for him, became a sweet, welcoming haven.

Pleasure grew inside him like a cadence—slow and sure. He wasn’t keyed up the way he felt at the controls of his jet, soaring with adrenaline. Instead, kissing Merry was knowing himself in ways he’d neglected lately. It was feeling the solid earth beneath his soles while angels sang in his ears.

He deepened the kiss. Her body swayed into his. He dropped his hands to her waist, wanting to feel every inch of her against him. He reached into the warmth beneath her open coat, stroked his palms down her sides, framing the roundness of her belly as he looped his arms around her.

Ding. A bell went off in his head.

Plink. The penny dropped.

Click. Pieces came together.

He stepped back, needing to see what he’d somehow, incredibly, managed to miss up until now.

“Meredith.”

She looked straight at him, nodding a little.

“You’re pregnant.”

Her hands went to the bulge beneath her sweater. It was a small one, not so difficult for a distracted man to miss. Still, he felt like a half-blind Mr. Magoo, groping for soda-bottle glasses.

“Yes,” she said in such a smooth yet sharp-edged voice that his vision snapped back into crystal clarity. “I am pregnant. Expecting, as they say.” Her mouth flattened. “In a delicate condition.”

She might have warned him. Her, or Nicky, or—

Oh, hell. Mike stopped the excuses. He had only himself to blame for falling for her in the span of a single evening.

She had pulled her coat closed again and was standing rigid beneath the neon glow of the Christmas lights, her head held at an awkward angle as she studied him for a reaction.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He summoned up a reckless grin to deflect his sense of shock and, yes, disappointment. “Fool me twice.”

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