Maggie Shayne: An Enchanted Season

He nodded. “Deal.”

“Cool. I’m Holly, by the way.”

“Of course you are.”

She frowned at him, and he quickly said, “Matthew.”

“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” She looked up at the sky. “Man, I hope this isn’t lake effect.”

He looked up, too. “I heard that term in town, but then someone said it was only going to be a few inches.”

“Phew. That’s a relief. Tell you what, I’ll put on some hot cocoa. You like hot cocoa?”

He didn’t. It was too damn festive and Christmassy. But he didn’t answer her, because his grumpy “no” might have made her change her happy little mind about letting him in at all.

The trucker opened the door of his rig when he arrived at his destination, in Binghamton. It was snowing there, and on a whim, he snapped up the old felt fedora and dropped it onto his head before climbing down from his rig.

But the wind had other ideas. It scooped the hat right off his head, and blew it crazily into the air, even as he gave chase, snapping his hands together overhead in an effort to catch it.

It was no use, though. The hat rose higher, and then sailed in a way he’d never seen anything that big sail before.

Shaking his head, he watched it go, and said, “Damn, that hat seems to have a mind of its own.”

HOLLY WENT INSIDE, RUBBING HER HANDS TOGETHER ANDheading straight for the fireplace. Bending, she added the last two sticks of firewood in the house. She’d brought in only a couple of arms full—just enough to take the chill off and chase the dampness out of the house while she was outside stringing lights.

She tugged off her mittens and set them on the mantle with their ends hanging over the front to dry. Shrugging out of her coat, which wasn’t damp at all, she hung it on a peg by the door, then she sat on the hearthstone to tug off her boots, and put them beside her, as close to the fire as was safe.

Sitting there, her back to the flames, she looked around what had once been the family living room. For a moment, she was swept into the past, to one Christmas morning long ago. The smell of pine, the twinkling lights, as she and her sister pounded down the stairs at about a quarter to dawn. The fireplace crackling, just like it was now. The presents, and paper and bows, and the candy canes on the tree.

Something tightened in her chest and she had a little trouble taking a breath. “Why did you call me back here?” she whispered.

Matthew came in, loaded down with more firewood than she could have carried in three trips, deposited it next to the fireplace, and then bent over and started stacking it more neatly.

Holly looked at him, then looked upward, her brows raised. “Really?”

“Really what?” he asked.

“I, uh—wasn’t talking to you.”

He frowned, looking around the place as if expecting to see someone else there. She shook her head, and crossed the room to where he stood. “Never mind. You just keep bringing the wood in. I’ll take care of piling it neatly.” And as she said it, she reached up to brush fresh white snow from his shoulders with her hand. “Looks like it’s really coming down out there.”

Her hand hopped from a pair of what she’d discovered to be nicely broad, strong shoulders, to his dark hair, where she continued brushing snowflakes away. But only for a moment, because he went very still and his eyes kind of slid around until they met hers.

Melted chocolate eyes. Yum, she thought.

Something crackled, and her hand went still in his hair. Whoa, that was something. And it was something potent, and delicious and exciting. And a little ridiculous. She didn’t even know this man—and what she did know about him didn’t exactly scream compatability. He drove an expensive car, too fast, was impatient, and thought her Christmas lights were gaudy. What was to like about any of that?

Her hand, she realized, was still buried in his hair. She drew it away, laughed a little to break the tension. “You ought to have a hat.”

“Did, once,” he said.

She frowned, tilted her head, and searched his face. There was something lost in his eyes when he said that.

He turned and headed back to the door.

Holly watched him go, then she felt the cold that rushed in as he went out, and rubbed her arms. She licked her lips. Was he the reason she’d been drawn back here? Was she supposed to meet him for some reason? Were they— nah . She added a few more chunks to the fire to distract herself from thinking along those lines, and got busy stacking the rest of the wood.

Twenty minutes later, they had enough wood to last for at least two nights, stacked neatly beside the fireplace. Matthew was shaking the bark and snow off his expensive black coat and taking off his boots by then. At least he hadn’t dressed like a city slicker in a Porsche. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, heavy socks underneath them, a nice sweater over another shirt. The sweater was brown, the shirt, pale blue—at least that was the color of the collar.

He hung the coat by the front door, next to hers, then carried his boots over to set them beside hers near the fire. She’d already swept up the trail of bark and snow after he’d unloaded the last armful of wood, and wiped the damp spots from the floor with a handful of paper towels.

“Thank you,” she said. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know. I would have shown you around the house anyway.”

“Oh, sure, now you tell me.” He took a seat on the hearth, where she’d been sitting earlier.

She ran into the kitchen for the steaming mugs of cocoa she’d left out there, and brought them in. She handed him one and then sat down beside him.

“So,” she said. “Grand tour begins in ten minutes. After you’ve had time to rest up, warm up, and drink your cocoa.” She took a sip of her own. “Meanwhile, tell me what a guy like you wants with a tumbledown old fixer-upper in the middle of the booming metropolis of Oswego, aka ‘Snowbelt Central.’”

He sipped his cocoa as she watched his face. A face that seemed get more attractive every time she looked at it. Hell. He lifted his eyebrows as he licked his luscious lips. “This is actually good. ”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged and sipped some more. “I buy lots of old houses like this one. They usually sell for exceptionally low prices, ’cause they don’t look like much. But if it’s structurally sound, and the only work it needs is cosmetic, I usually double my money.”

She blinked. “Double? Really?”

“Sometimes better.”

She frowned, looking around at the house as she enjoyed her cocoa. “So what would you do to fix it up?”

“It’s pretty much the same with every house. You slap on fresh Sheetrock, a couple of coats of paint, put some kind of flooring down, whatever looks good and costs least. Replace any windows and doors that need it. But only the ones that need it. You make sure the wiring and plumbing are up to par, maybe upgrade the heating system. Then you go to the outside, pop on some vinyl siding, hire a crew to spend a couple of days sprucing up the lawn, make sure the roof’s intact, and voilà. It looks like a brand-new house.”

“And how long does all that work take you?” She was thinking in terms of years.

He said, “Me? It doesn’t take me any time at all. I hire contractors to do it. A job like this one—maybe three months, tops.” He looked at her face and said, “Why are you frowning so hard?”

She tried to ease the muscles in her face, which had scrunched up into what must be a fairly unattractive scowl. “It just sounds so…cold. So impersonal. I mean, do you even pick the colors?”