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

“You’re pretty smart.”

Holding a cookie she’d just painted with bright-red frosting, she laughed. “Yeah. Right.”

Happy to have their minds back on work, he said, “You are. All your performance appraisals say that.”

“You read my performance appraisals?”

“I read your file this morning. You are my administrative assistant for the next four weeks. I figured I’d better know who I was getting.”

“Oh.” She placed her cookie on the aluminum foil that lined the far end of the island and reached for another one. “So, how did you learn to cook?”

He grimaced. “Our housekeeper taught me.”

“That’s right. Your mom was the last company president.”

He nodded. “My dad owned an investment firm and my mom ran the factory, so my parents were overly busy. Our housekeeper was the one who fed me, nudged me to get dressed, drove me to school…” He pointed at the stove. “And taught me to cook. Nothing fancy, just the basics. Eggs. Hamburgers.” He shrugged. “That kind of stuff.”

“So that makes you pretty handy to have around the house.”

He laughed. “And also a good roommate for everybody in college.”

“Where did you go to school?”

He could tell she was only making casual conversation, but he nonetheless felt odd, as if he were bragging and he winced. “Harvard.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Community college for two years, then I met my husband and realized I could be an administrative assistant while he did his internship at the local hospital. When he died, I probably should have gone back for a degree.” She shrugged. “But I just never found anything I wanted to study.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

With her focus on choosing the next cookie to paint, Wendy shrugged again. “It’s all right.” She said the well-practiced words easily, but the emptiness that shuddered through her contradicted them. Still, as she’d told Harry, she shouldn’t dwell. She’d moved on. Gotten tougher, smarter. “It’s been two years since Greg died.”

Surveying the cookies to be painted, Harry casually said, “Cullen’s mom died this year.”

Wendy spun to face the stove. “Now, I’m sorry.”

“As you said, it’s all right. She actually died in January. So my dad and I are pretty much beyond it.”

Finished patting the hamburgers into shape, Cullen poked through cupboards, looking for a frying pan. Wendy watched him, feeling a shift in the funny catch she got in her heart every time she looked at him. Hearing about his mom’s death reminded her that he was as human as everybody else. But was it really good to begin seeing him as a normal man? Wasn’t it wiser to continue thinking of him as a super-good-looking but unapproachable playboy?

By the time the hamburgers were ready, Wendy and Harry had finished painting their cookies, and laid them on the island to dry. Wendy pulled paper plates from the pantry and handed them to Harry.

“Since we’re not sure when we’ll get power again, it’s probably a good idea for us not to dirty too many dishes.”

Harry scurried to the round table in the corner of the room and arranged the plates in front of three chairs. Cullen set a platter of hamburgers in the center.

Wendy found the plastic cutlery and carried it to the table along with a bag of hamburger buns and a bag of potato chips. “We can eat reject cookies for dessert.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cullen said, pulling a seat up to the table.

But Harry stopped him. “I want to sit there!” he said, shifting Cullen to the left, to the place beside Wendy.

Wendy looked over at the little boy. He didn’t seem upset. He seemed to genuinely want the seat on the end. So she said nothing. They passed the hamburgers and buns around the table, then the chips. Pale light filtered in from the windows in the top half of the back door. The sun was setting.

“I think I might need to get a candle.”

“Do you want some help?”

“No, I’m fine. I just have a feeling it’ll be dark before we’re done eating.” She rose from the table and found the big round candles and matches she kept for times the electricity failed. She lit one of the fat beige candles, set it between the hamburgers and the chips and took her seat again.

As they ate, the light from the window faded and the candle’s light replaced it, creating an unfortunately romantic glow. Wendy stole a look at Cullen. He was stealing a glance at her. A sizzle of electricity arced between them. Time stood still as they simply stared into each other’s eyes.

“My head looks like a watermelon,” Harry said with a giggle, pointing at a shadow cast by the flickering candlelight.

Wendy laughed. It was exactly the comic relief they needed. “So does mine.”

Cullen turned to see the wall behind him. He laughed. “So does mine.”

Harry settled into his seat again. “I like this.”

One of Cullen’s black eyebrows rose. “Eating in the dark?”

“No. Laughing.”

Wendy glanced at Cullen, again just as he looked at her. This time, instead of chemistry sparking between them, understanding did. This little boy had spent the past months of his life not doing anything, not going anywhere, probably never laughing.

Cullen rose and unexpectedly grabbed Harry, hoisting him over his shoulder and tickling the strip of belly exposed when his T-shirt rose. “Yeah, well, if you like to laugh so much how about this?” He tickled him again and Harry giggled with delight.

Wendy’s heart melted in her chest. Never in a million years would she guess somebody like Cullen could be so perceptive, but he was and she was grateful.

“I have a good idea,” she said, rising from the table. “Why don’t we throw away these dishes and take the cookies into the living room? The fireplace is already lit. We’ll put our sleeping bags down on the floor and make popcorn.”

Cullen swung Harry to the floor. “Or we could tell ghost stories.”

As Harry’s small feet touched down he said, “Ghost stories?”

Cullen smiled evilly. “Oh, I know plenty. I spent some time in Gettysburg.”

Harry’s nose wrinkled. “You were in prison?”

Cullen and Wendy both laughed. Wendy said, “No! Gettysburg is a famous battlefield. But rather than ghost stories,” she said, giving Cullen a look, hoping he’d understand, “why don’t we tell funny stories?”

Harry jumped up and down. “I love funny stories!” Then he raced out of the kitchen, toward the living room.

Obviously realizing his mistake, Cullen rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “Sorry. I forgot his mom just died or I never would have mentioned ghosts.”

“That’s okay. I’ve slipped up a time or two myself today.”

He glanced around. “Have you got any marshmallows?” Dipping into the pantry and then out again, she displayed a bag of fat white marshmallows. “I always keep a bag on hand in case I ever want to make s’mores.”

“We’ll start toasting those over the fire and tell funny stories and he’ll forget all about the ghosts.”

Wendy smiled her agreement, but her smile faded when he turned away, gathered the catsup and mustard and walked to the refrigerator as if it were very normal for him to be in her kitchen. In a way she supposed it was. This had been his home. But she had the oddest feeling that he was right where he was supposed to be.

And so was she.

Blaming that feeling on the fact that they both called this house home, she shook her head, told herself to stop acting like an idiot and carried the marshmallows to the living room where Harry eagerly awaited her.

They spent the next hour roasting marshmallows and teasing Harry. Then Cullen realized he’d not only have to sleep in his uncomfortable clothes; he’d also have to wear them the next day unless he went to his car.