Susan Mallery - Christmas In Whitehorn

She looked both chagrined and cautiously hopeful. Mark shivered. He’d crossed the distance between the two apartments without bothering to pull on a coat. He wore slacks and a long sleeved shirt and the temperature outside couldn’t be above twenty.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but could we straighten it out inside?”

“What?” She stared at him. “Oh! You must be freezing. Come on in.”

She held the door open wide, then took the wine and flowers he offered. She gazed at the yellow roses and orange Gerber daises as if she’d never seen them before.

“You brought me flowers,” she murmured, inhaling the scent of the blooms. “Wow. That’s so nice.” She stared at him as if he’d just created fire. “I mean really nice.”

He bit back a statement that he wasn’t the least bit nice. “I thought maybe for the table.”

“Of course. They’re perfect.”

She led the way into the dining room. He noticed the large table had only two place settings. Her incoherent conversation replayed in his brain.

“No one else will be here for dinner?” he asked.

She shook her head as she reached for a vase in the hutch against the far wall. “No. Sorry. I didn’t plan this. I hope you believe me.”

She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting him to explode with rage. Mark thought about the alternative to eating dinner with just Darcy and that was eating dinner with her and half a dozen people he didn’t know. People who would want to ask questions.

“I’m not a real social guy. It doesn’t matter.”

She set the wine on the table, then clutched the flowers and the vase to her chest. “Really? I didn’t want you to think I’d set this up on purpose.”

Her meaning was slow to sink in. Set up as in…synapses fired in his brain. As in a date.

His gaze settled on her as he took in her appearance. Instead of her usual waitress uniform, she wore a bright blue sweater and black slacks. Both emphasized her curves. She might not be tall, but she had all the right parts in the perfect proportions. He avoided staring at her breasts because they’d gotten him into trouble the last time he’d been in her house. Of course, admiring her legs wasn’t much safer. Maybe he should keep his attention on her face.

“I promise not to think the worst of you without more evidence,” he said seriously.

She grinned. “Good. Then would you mind opening the wine? Oh, and I hope you’re hungry, because I expect you to eat your half of the turkey.”

“You first.”

He grabbed the wine and followed her into the kitchen. The scent of cooking turkey mingled with other smells. There were three pots bubbling on the stove and the microwave beeped impatiently.

“Glasses are in there,” she said, pointing to a cupboard by the tile and oak table.

She turned her attention to the stove, lifting covers and stirring, all the while muttering under her breath. He didn’t know if she was talking to herself or the food, then decided it didn’t matter. Women in the kitchen were a mystery he’d never solved. They moved with an easy grace he could never imagine duplicating. Perhaps because he hadn’t seen it a great deal while growing up. His mother had never been much for cooking, and his sister was too busy being queen of the rodeo to bother with meal preparation.

“It all smells good,” he said as he poured the wine.

She took the glass he offered and leaned against the counter. “I’m not expecting a crisis.” Laughter brightened her eyes. “That’s not to say I haven’t had them in the past, before I knew what I was doing. However I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

He put the open bottle on the counter. “What kind of mistakes.”

“Oh, little things like not realizing that a turkey takes several days to thaw. That was before I special-ordered a fresh one. So I tried cooking it while still frozen.” She winced. “Which meant it took hours and all that nasty stuff they put on the inside like the neck and heart cooked with it. You wouldn’t believe the smell. We had to go out that Thanksgiving. And let me tell you, there’s not a whole lot open. Then there was the time I was really in a hurry and accidentally put salt in to thicken the gravy instead of flour. There were some gagging sounds around the table that night!”

“When did you start cooking?”

“About five years ago.”

“What inspired you?”

“We all have to grow up some time.” She shrugged. “Five years ago, I doubt I could have boiled water without instructions. Since then I’ve read and practiced. Working in restaurants allowed me to observe different techniques. I found out I really like baking.” She motioned to the pies cooling on the table. “I made those myself, this morning.”

There were three pies, including one pumpkin. “Do I have to eat half of those, too?”

“Maybe. We’ll see how you do on the turkey.” She put her wine on the counter and returned her attention to the stove. “I’ve started selling my baked goods around town. I might have a shot at a contract with the Hip Hop Café. They’re handing out samples to see if people like my stuff.”

“So that was your pumpkin bread I tried on Monday.”

“Yes. And you liked it. Even though you make such a fuss about eating vegetables at breakfast.”

“It’s not natural.”

“Do we have to have the omelette conversation again?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

She opened the oven and poked at the turkey. “He’s nearly ready.” When she closed the door, she straightened. “You’ll be pleased to know there’s nothing unnatural about our meal this evening.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Why?”

“You’re into health foods. I’m nervous about your choice of ingredients.”

She laughed. “Tofu surprise in the stuffing?”

“Exactly.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “What is it about men and tofu. You’re all deathly afraid women are plotting to get you to eat it.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

Mark found himself chuckling. The action felt awkward and unfamiliar. He’d worried about spending time with Darcy, but she was surprisingly easy to be with. And easy on the eye. When she returned her attention to the stove, he found his gaze lingering on the curve of her rear. He reminded himself that attraction was dangerous. Life was better when he didn’t feel anything. How many times did he have to get shot before he learned his lesson?

“Is it snowing?” she asked.

“Not yet, but it was pretty gray this afternoon. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

“Good. I like holidays with snow. Oh. Isn’t there a football game on this afternoon. Do you want to go watch it?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of going an entire day without viewing a sporting event.”

She looked at him in mock amazement. “Really? How do you do it? Deep breathing exercises?”

“Tremendous willpower.”

“I’m very impressed.” She carried a pot over to the sink and drained it. “While you’re not watching football, would you mind taking our little friend out of the oven. He should be done.”

Mark set down his wine, then carried the turkey over to the table. Darcy wrapped the bird in foil, explaining that it had to rest before carving. He didn’t think it had been especially active before now, but what did he know about turkey cooking?

She had him mash the potatoes while she made the gravy—since when did gravy not come out of a can—then she expertly carved several slices from the impressive bird and quickly put all the dishes on the table.

They sat across from each other. Mark had a moment of awkwardness—the situation was too intimate for his liking. Instinctively he went into detective mode, finding safety in asking questions.