SUSAN MEIER - Bride Under the Mistletoe - The Magic of a Family Christmas

So maybe that brush had affected her as much as him? And maybe he should just ignore the way she was acting?

After a few seconds of silence, she gasped. “Oh, you weren’t kidding about my leaving town?”

“Why did you think I was kidding? Everybody else in this company is out of town.”

She gaped at him. “Because it’s the holiday! People are going to parties and visiting friends and relatives for Thanksgiving!”

“Right.” Because his holiday had been uneventful he’d almost forgotten it altogether. He looked down at his papers, then back up at her. “I’m not Scrooge. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t lose my source for information.”

She pulled in a breath. Her breasts rose and fell. Realizing he was staring, he jerked his eyes upward, cursing himself for acting like a horny teenager.

“No, Harry and I are staying in town. Even weekends.”

“Great.” Forcing his mind off her sweater and to the mission he was here to accomplish, he rubbed his hands together over the keyboard. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

She turned and left the office. Though Cullen had thought his attention was on the family business, where it was supposed to be, he couldn’t resist glancing up to watch the sway of her hips as she left.

Because her back was to him, he braced his elbow on his desk and his chin on his closed fist, letting himself watch as he tried to figure this out. He felt bewitched. But he couldn’t be. They hadn’t spent more than ten minutes together. And she wasn’t his type. He liked blondes. And she was a widow. A serious woman, not to be trifled with.

So he wouldn’t trifle. He would be the perfect gentleman for the few weeks he had to run this company, and then he’d leave Barrington, Pennsylvania, and, he hoped, never again even set foot in the town that bore his family’s name.

Wendy hustled Harry into the foyer of her echoing home. Her house was a monstrosity, a five-bedroom, three-bath mansion built in the eighteen hundreds that had been updated with the times, but had gone into disrepair when the last owner had left town and let it sit empty for over a year. She and her husband had purchased it with the idea of turning it into their dream home. They’d gotten as far as ripping out carpeting and finishing the hardwood floors throughout the house, chucking wood paneling in favor of plastered walls and installing a new furnace, roof and windows. But Greg had died before they even touched the bathrooms or the kitchen, which could best be described as early-American. As in Revolutionary War.

She turned up the thermostat to accommodate the howling wind outside and pointed Harry in the direction of the kitchen.

Creamsicle, her fat orange-and-white cat, thumped down the stairs and wrapped himself around her legs in greeting.

She motioned to the cat, diverting Harry’s attention to him. “Harry, this is Creamsicle. Creamsicle, this is Harry.”

The cat blinked. Harry grinned. “You have a cat!”

“Yes, but he’s old and moody, so you have to be nice to him.” She stooped down to pet Creamsicle, who ignored Harry—which was probably for the best. “I seem to remember something about Christmas cookies.”

Harry’s eyes grew as big as her cat’s belly. “Can we make them red and green?”

She began walking to the kitchen. “Hey, if you want to paint stained-glass windows on the church cookies, that’s fine by me.”

“We’re making churches?”

“I have a cutter for a church. One for Santa. An angel.”

She walked to the cabinet by the refrigerator. Her cupboards were knotty pine that actually made her dizzy. Especially when combined with the green-and-white print in the linoleum floor. She’d replaced the busy leaf-print curtains with simple taupe panels, removed the floral wallpaper and painted the walls a soothing sage color. But she hadn’t been able to replace the cabinets or the floor and the floor/cabinet combo sometimes gave her motion sickness.

“Here’s a bell, a wreath, a Christmas tree,” she said, pulling the cookie cutters from the deep drawer. “Let me grab the ingredients for the cookies and we’ll get this show on the road.”

“Don’t you think I should take off my coat first?”

She laughed, walking toward him, as Creamsicle waddled in and took his place on the floor in the corner, watching her and the newcomer.

“I don’t have any kids so I’m going to forget some obvious things every once in a while.” She unzipped his coat and tugged on the sleeve to pull it off then yanked his cap off his head. “Don’t be afraid to remind me!”

“Okay.” He pushed his glasses up his nose.

After stowing his coat and hat in the hall closet, Wendy gathered sugar, vanilla and flour from the cupboards and eggs, butter and milk from the refrigerator. Harry climbed on a chair.

“Oh, no! No sitting for you! You have to help.”

He peeked up at her. “Really?”

“Sure.” She handed him a measuring cup. “Fill that with flour.”

Standing on the chair, he peered into the canister, then back at her. “Fill it?”

“Just dip it in.” She cupped his soft little hand over the handle of the measuring cup and scooped it into the flour to fill it. “See? Like that.”

“Cool!”

“I’m guessing you’ve never baked before.”

He shook his head. “My mom didn’t have time.”

Wendy nearly cursed at her stupid mistake. The last thing she wanted to do was remind him of his mother, but before she had a chance to say anything, the phone rang.

Wendy walked to the wall unit talking. “You never having baked isn’t a big deal. In fact, it will be fun for me to teach you. Something new for both of us.” She lifted the phone receiver. “Hello?”

“This isn’t the right forecast.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Barrington.”

“This forecast has draft written on it. Every copy in the file has draft stamped on it. Isn’t there a final version?”

“Yes.” She thought for a second, wondering why her final copy wasn’t in the file, but in the end decided it didn’t matter. “I probably have to print you another copy.”

“Great. I’ll see you when you get here.” He paused then added, “And don’t dillydally.”

He hung up the phone.

She sighed. “Harry, do me a favor and put the butter back in the fridge.”

He scooted off the chair and took the butter to the refrigerator. Right behind him with the milk and eggs, Wendy caught the door as he opened it.

“This is so much fun!”

She frowned. “Getting things out and putting them away again is fun?”

“Having somewhere to go!”

“You like going to work?”

“I like going anywhere . My mom didn’t go places.” He frowned then glanced at the floor. “She was sick.”

Wendy stooped down in front of him. Her own pang of loss rippled through her as she remembered Betsy. “I know she was sick. And I’ll bet you miss her. But I don’t think she’d want you dwelling on her.”

“What’s dwelling?”

“Thinking about her when she can’t be here. I’ll bet she’d want you to think happy thoughts this close to Christmas.”

Even as the words came out of her mouth they brought a rush of memory. Her mom had told her the same thing about Greg. That she shouldn’t dwell on him, their plans, their life. She remembered thinking that her mom was right and still being angry that he’d died, had left her when she’d loved him so much, needed him so much. Two years without him had taught her to be stronger, bolder and independent enough never to fall into the trap of needing a man the way she had Greg. But when her mom had said those words, she’d been devastated.

Harry, however, nodded sagely.