Kristine Rolofson - Her Mistletoe Magic

“You can have one of my interns,” Nico said, frowning at the pain in those beautiful eyes of hers. “Jilly is never going to be a chef. She cried twice today, so I think she’d jump at the chance to, uh, light up jars.”

“You made her cry?”

“Of course not.” He was taken aback. “Not all television chefs scream at their employees. I may have lost it a few times with idiot guests, but never with the people who work for me. Jilly is just overwhelmed, I think. She’ll do fine in her own kitchen at home. Or maybe with a small catering business. She’d jump at the chance to get off the line.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he assured her. “And the kitchen will be a better place without her. She’s yours, but only if you will quit this madness and come home. It’s after eight, dinner service has wound down and I’m free to get out of here.”

She hesitated, just as he knew she would, but he was prepared.

“We’re both tired, Grace. And all your stuff is still at my house. Patsy brought over your Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday outfits.” He didn’t need to add that she was in pain, because he could see from her face that she was tempted to return to his house, where there were no stairs and that big guest bedroom awaited. He’d already put on his jacket—he was ready to get out of there for the night.

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” She sighed. “Patsy shouldn’t have assumed I’d be staying with you for more than one night.”

He wanted to laugh, but he managed to control himself. “It’s my fault you hurt yourself.”

“I blame the shoes.”

He shrugged. “Come on, sweetheart.” He retrieved her crutches from where they leaned against the wall by the door. “Gather your things together and I’ll bring you to the car.”

“I guess it really is easier this way.” She winced as she moved her foot from the chair.

“It is,” he agreed, carefully avoiding the ornaments as she stepped around the desk. “We can plan the shower tonight over dinner.”

She groaned.

“What?” he asked. “You don’t want to do the shower? Or is dinner a bad thing?”

“Dinner is a very bad thing.” She sighed again. “I love your cooking.”

“I’m glad. So what’s the problem?” He lifted the blue scarf from its bag and placed it around her neck.

“Calories,” she said. “Lots and lots of calories.”

“Olive oil is good for you.” He smiled down into her blue eyes. “And you don’t have to worry about calories.”

“You only think that because I do worry about calories,” she pointed out. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” She had the most gorgeous skin. The occasional dot of red glitter made her look like a Christmas ornament.

“Never mind.” The pink in her cheeks deepened.

“Like I want to kiss you?”

She gave him that little frown, the one that he found so intriguing. She thought it hid her feelings, but he had learned to see through it. He couldn’t resist leaning closer to touch his lips to hers for just a moment. A brief, satisfying moment.

His intentions were honorable, the kiss declared.

She was his, the kiss said.

Everything was right in the world, the kiss proclaimed.

Nico backed away as if nothing had happened.

“Is any of this stuff going back to the house with us?” He was pleased that he sounded so casual and normal when all he wanted to do was take her into his arms and kiss her for a week. Or a month. Maybe a year would be long enough.

“No.” She cleared her throat and stared up at him for a long moment. “I’m done. For now.”

“Great.” He lifted her coat from its hook behind the door. “I had one of the kids bring my car around to the front.”

“You really think ahead.” She stood and held on to her desk.

“I do,” he confessed. “Sometimes too much.”

“Well,” she said, putting her arms in the sleeves of the coat as he held it. “I would think that was a good thing. As a chef.”

“I like to be prepared,” he said. “To know I have everything I need when I want to cook. And then sometimes there’s the challenge of having only a few items and needing to make a meal out of them. Do you cook, Grace?”

“I’m the queen of casseroles,” she said, surprising him. “I learned early on that if I didn’t make dinner I wouldn’t eat anything but takeout or frozen fish sticks.”

“Your father wasn’t home?”

“He was dating. At first I thought he was just lonely. I moved in with him after my mother died, but I was in sixth grade and I wasn’t the best company.”

Nico thought of his niece, a sensitive child around the same age. He couldn’t imagine her father leaving her alone while he ran after women. “And then?”

She picked up her huge bag and turned. “What?”

“You said ‘at first,’” he explained, scooping her into his arms. “At first you thought he was lonely. What happened?”

“I felt sorry for him. And for myself. He’d take me to my aunt’s on weekends, which was fine with me. I realized he just didn’t have much interest in me. I hadn’t even seen him that much when my mother was alive. My aunt told me he was a fool.”

“I think I’d like your aunt.” He stopped at the door so she could flick the lights off.

“She is a very blunt, very kind person. Everyone loves her.”

“I’ll look forward to meeting her. Has she been to the restaurant?”

“Several times,” she said. “But that was before you came.”

“When she comes again I’ll make her something special.”

Grace didn’t protest as he walked down the hall with her in his arms. Several guests stared and smiled. The woman at the front desk waved. An incoming guest held the front door open for them. In minutes he’d tucked her into the front seat, driven her to his house and carried her into his kitchen.

Nico felt positively heroic. Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince Grace to stay forever.

AL SMILED AT HER.

Nico pampered her.

The wine in her glass warmed her.

Oh, my. The man was dangerous. That kiss, well, she’d yet to put it out of her mind. He’d surprised her, and she’d surprised herself by how much that brief, intimate contact had affected her. She’d had to pretend it was nothing, of course, as he had. And now, with aching foot propped up on a chair, Grace watched the most handsome man she had ever seen—well, apart from Bradley Cooper—fix dinner. It was late, after nine o’clock, but he seemed to have limitless energy. On his television show he’d created a whirlwind of enthusiastic food preparations—chopping, slicing, tossing things into pans and hauling dishes out of immaculate ovens, all while he talked and explained and gave measurements.

Why had he left Hollywood, or wherever it was in California that these things were taped? She’d asked him yesterday, but he hadn’t answered the question. Grace reached down and patted Al’s head. “What are you making?”

“Something light,” he said. “Chicken medallions. With wine and lemon. You won’t have to obsess over calories. And you can skip dessert.”

“Dessert?” Do not think about dessert , she told herself. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since the Santa brunch, deciding it was safer to sip herbal tea at her desk and avoid Marie’s afternoon cookie offering.

“My mother left another platter of sugar cookies. She and the kids decorated them today. They’re for Christmas Eve, but she’ll never know if we eat a few.”

“She sounds like a wonderful grandmother.”

“She is.”

“Why did you come back? Was it to help your family?”