Judith Gilbert - The Mistletoe Affair

Copyright ©2005 by Judith Gilbert

“You know what? How's Santa gonna land without Grandpa's runway lights?” five-year-old Matt asked.

Katherine Cahill squinted from Friday's midday sun and pointed to the candy-cane lights that hugged the walkways of her mother's Houston home. She did not relish the idea of climbing this roof as she did at their home in Sugar Land. With her fingers crossed, she prayed her son would believe Santa now had adequate lights to land safely.

His dark eyebrows furrowed. “You gonna put ‘em on the roof so Santa and Rudolph can see real good like Grandpa used to do?"

Matt's ‘like Grandpa used to do’ brought back a rush of painful memories of the loving father who had lost a long battle to cancer ten months ago. She'd made a promise to look after everyone. Their first Christmas without him would be especially hard for everyone, unless she made it right. She intended to help both Matt and her mother, who recently underwent painful hip surgery, have a wonderful Christmas. That's what Dad would have wanted her to do.

Staring at the two-story mountain of a house with its steep-pitched roof, she muttered, “Piece a cake.” For Matt, she would attempt anything, and that included continuing her father's tradition of putting lights on the roof.

She knelt beside her son on the sidewalk and tickled his belly. “Would I let you down?"

He wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed. “Can I go skate with Jimmy? He's waitin’ for me."

Katherine nodded. “Grandma's exercising her hip, so be quiet when you go inside for your helmet and kneepads."

“I will.” His little corduroy-covered legs scampered toward the front porch to grab his gear, and Katherine headed to the garage for her own gear.

After fumbling through the garage, she placed the extension ladder against the side of the house, crammed icicle light clips in her jeans and climbed to the eave. Stepping onto the shingles, she scaled the roof until she reached the summit.

She leaned over to attach clips to the eaves, and her feet slipped on several loose shingles. Her breath caught in her throat. She steadied herself and made a mental note to repair them.

“You need any help up there, ma'am? Mrs. Taylor across the street saw you slip and almost fainted,” said a deep masculine voice from down below.

Startled, Katherine dropped the clip and landed with a plop onto her butt. Shading her eyes from the sun, she stared toward the house across the street and met the gaze from human eyeballs peeking between blinds. Katherine lifted her hand and waved at Mrs. Taylor.

Dropping her gaze, she gingerly peered over the edge of the roof, while still trying to defy gravity and stay glued to the shingles. She looked in the direction of the baritone voice and spotted a man in jeans and corduroy shirt staring up at her from the base of the ladder. The pale December sunlight glinted off his hair, highlighting darker, almost-auburn strands amid the blond.

“I live next door to Mrs. Taylor, ma'am. She called and said she'll never make it to her seventy-fifth birthday if I don't let her know you're okay."

He lifted his hand and waved to Mrs. Taylor before turning back to Katherine. “Why don't you get your husband to do this, so you don't get hurt?"

She imagined Paul attempting to hang lights for the first time and chuckled. “Ex-husbands take a dim view of calls to help their ex-wives."

“You're divorced?” He frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Your mother never mentioned that particular detail. She wanted me to meet her family this Christmas, especially Matt."

His sharp tone, coupled with the suspicious glances he threw Katherine's way, made her angry. “I bet you're the only man in town my mother's missed feeding that tidbit to."

A brow shot up. “Is that a fact?” He lifted his chin and stared back like she'd turned into a people eating alien.

What's with men? They automatically assume every divorcee wants to club them and drag them down the aisle . In her case, the assumption bordered on ludicrous. One two-timing husband had cured her for life.

“Well, maybe you should hire a man to do this for you,” he said.

“I don't need one,” she huffed. “Women do a lot of things, including hanging lights."

He started up the ladder. “I'm Jared Randall by the way, and you must be Katherine."

Her gaze reluctantly traveled across his broad chest and down his arms. She wondered how often he worked out. He shifted to wrap his palms around the rungs of the ladder, and hard-packed muscles bulged against the thick, ribbed fabric of his red shirt.

“Yes, I'm Katherine Cahill.” When he stepped onto the roof, she raised her hand palm up to halt his advance, and stared into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. “What do you think you're doing, Mr. Randall?"

“Call me Jared.” He grinned and the dimple in his right cheek deepened. “Trying to rescue you."

“Really?” She lifted her chin another inch, even as her attention shifted to his incredible mouth. “I can assure you, I don't need rescuing."

“Sorry, but I don't agree. I think you need some serious help here."

“You're crazy,” she snapped back.

He raised an eyebrow, as he climbed up beside her. “That little statement could be considered libelous."

She frowned. “Worse than crazy, you're an attorney, right?"

He sat down beside her on the roof. “Guilty as charged,” he answered, leisurely stretching his long legs in front of him.

Just what I need, another attorney in my life, especially one two times bigger, and three times more stubborn .

Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly and scooted away, even more determined to show him she didn't need a man's help.

“Thanks for your concern, but no thanks. It's okay for you to leave."

He shook his head. “I'm afraid I can't do that."

“Why not?"

“I'm running for City Council. It wouldn't look good if I walked away and you fell."

“I won't fall.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Honestly, I'm doing fine."

“Is that a fact? That's not what the evidence says. You almost fell awhile ago.” He patted the asphalt shingles beneath him. “If you don't mind, I'll stay put in case you need me."

She pursed her lips. “Suit yourself.” Scooting her bottom a long distance from him, she stood and moved further up the roof, daring him to interfere. She continued placing icicle clips on the eaves.

Half way up one side, her feet suddenly hit another loose shingle and flew out from under her. She landed flat on her back, before she could utter a scream, her body picked up momentum, sliding toward the edge of the roof. As she sailed past him, he flung out his arm, grabbed and caught her.

She closed her eyes and tried not to notice that his large hand held onto the area of her bra sitting right between her cleavage. Don't let Matt see me like this. The ambulance would have been better.

Furious, embarrassed, and knowing she could not spend all day suspended like this with her eyes glued shut, she ripped them open and glared into the laughing cobalt eyes watching her. To her utter shame, her nipples hardened into points and her face flushed hot. “Let go of my bra… you manhandling chauvinist."

“Manhandling chauvinist?” His jaw muscles worked fighting a grin. “Well, if that isn't gratitude for you. I'm not the one that fell on her backside and almost rolled off a two-story house."

She gasped, as her breasts swelled against his palm.