* * *
HE HAD BEGUN it and it was up to him to end it—even if he didn’t want to. Then he would be forced to apologize for something he didn’t want to apologize for.
Because it was something he had done almost reflexively—certainly without any forethought. He hadn’t known he was going to kiss her until after he was kissing her.
But, dear Lord, it was the best move on autopilot he had ever made, he thought even as he tried—without success—to break contact with Cris. Tried to release her, even though holding her was the sweetest, most soothing thing he had done in so long he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt close in this way. In all honesty he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt anything remotely like this.
Because he could swear there were rays of sunshine piercing the corners of the darkness that his soul had sunk into.
Finally, with supreme effort, Shane drew back, his breathing far from regular even though he tried to control it.
He struggled to frame an apology. Nothing came to him, least of all remorse. Still, that didn’t change anything.
“I guess I should say I’m sorry.”
Cris caught her lower lip between her teeth the way she used to when she was an undecided teenager. Her bright blue eyes rose to his.
“Are you?” she queried, mentally crossing her fingers because, in spite of his statement, she knew what she wanted to hear.
He was aware he was supposed to say yes, he was sorry. Very sorry. But he wasn’t sorry, “very” or otherwise. And he had no desire to lie to her. That would have been easier; it just didn’t seem right. So he answered, “No.”
He wasn’t prepared to see the smile that bloomed on her lips. Was even less prepared to hear her say, “Me, neither.” And was caught completely off guard at the burst of happiness he felt in his heart at her answer.
CHAPTER TEN
ANDY DELIBERATELY CLEARED her throat before she spoke.
“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” the youngest of the Roman sisters asked.
She looked from Cris to Shane, a somewhat surprised yet pleased look slipping over her fine features as she took in the scene and put her own spin on it.
Five years Cris’s junior, Andy was in her last year at the University of California San Diego, the same university Alex had attended. In Alex’s case, she’d gone to this San Diego campus rather than any of the other UC locations because she wanted to remain close to home. Their father had fallen seriously ill at the time and she had taken it upon herself to run the inn until he could get back on his feet.
Andy, on the other hand, had opted for UC San Diego because it was convenient for her. She crashed with friends who lived on or near campus when she was so inclined. The rest of the time she came home, because home, despite her restless soul and everything she might gripe about, was all-important to her. Her independence and the support she felt derived from this one source.
She might enjoy talking about soaring high, but she would be the first to acknowledge how welcome she found it to know a safety net was strung out wide beneath her—just in case she lost her footing in life and fell.
To her great amusement, she saw her sister and the hunky general contractor who’d been working on the inn’s latest addition spring about two feet apart, as if she’d wedged a hot poker between them.
She supposed, given the circumstances, an apology was in order.
“I’m sorry. I was just coming to see if you needed a hand or two. Looks like you don’t,” she observed, unable to hide her delight. It was about time Cris came out of that self-imposed shell she’d been occupying for so long.
“Your sister had something in her eye. I was just trying to help her get it out,” Shane told Andy without missing a beat.
He felt that offering an explanation was the least he could do. After all, if he hadn’t initiated the kiss, he and Cris wouldn’t have been caught in a compromising position
“All better?” Andy asked, looking pointedly at her sister despite the seemingly caring question.
Andy wasn’t buying Shane’s narrative for a second, Cris thought. Her eyes shifted to Shane. The excuse he’d tendered had risen effortlessly to his lips. Was he just good under pressure—or was his dissembling a sign she should take serious note of?
Did this tall, handsome, thoughtful man utter lies without a second thought, or was it just this once, to cover for her and, to his way of thinking, protect her reputation? Not that they were doing anything so terrible. After all, they were two consenting adults and the only thing they’d consented to was a harmless kiss.
Or was it? a little voice in her head whispered, playing her personal devil’s advocate. Was it all that harmless? Then why are your insides all scrambled as though they’d just taken a couple of spins in an industrial food processor?
Sometimes, Cris couldn’t help musing, she was her own worst enemy. She ordered herself to stop overthinking everything before she wound up with an ulcer.
“Yes,” she answered her sister brightly. “Shane got whatever had fallen into my eye out, so I’m ‘all better’ now.” She deliberately blinked her right eye several times for Andy’s benefit. “It feels just fine again.”
“Small wonder,” Andy murmured just loud enough for Cris to hear.
Andy was really tempted to comment that she’d never seen the approach Shane was using to remove pesky dust from an eye. Clearly mouth-to-mouth resuscitation had more unique uses than enabling the victim to breathe again.
But maybe that was pushing the envelope a bit too far and she liked Shane too much to embarrass him or put him on the defensive. So, though it was never easy for her to hold her peace, Andy dropped the subject—for now.
“Oh” was all she said in response.
“You mentioned something just now about volunteering,” Cris prompted, trying her best to divert the conversation to a topic she could better control.
Andy snapped to attention, remembering her initial purpose in seeking Cris out.
“Yeah, I thought that since you were being so magnanimous and giving everyone who normally helps out in the kitchen the long weekend off—and since I was home and temporarily fancy-free—” she lifted her arms above her head like a pirouetting ballerina “—I’d see if you needed someone to pitch in. But—”
“No buts,” Cris said, cutting in before Andy could rescind her offer. “The more the merrier. As long as Dad or Alex doesn’t need you out front, you’re more than welcome to get all hot and sweaty here in the kitchen.”
Andy’s eyes all but danced as she listened to her sister. “Oh, so it’s the kitchen that’s getting you so hot and sweaty?” she asked with a very mischievous smile on her face.
“Yes, Andy,” Cris said deliberately, enunciating each syllable as she fought not to glare at her sister or give her a dressing-down. Doing that in front of Shane would make them both uncomfortable. “It’s the kitchen. The temperature here has to be at least fifteen degrees higher than in the rest of the inn.”
Andy glanced at the area above the sink and did a bad demonstration of keeping her tongue in her cheek. “With the window open, too. Guess we have our very own example of global warming, huh?”
Cris fixed her sister with a penetrating look. “Are you here to help or harp?”
“Good one, Cris.” Andy could appreciate skillful wordplay, even if it was being used against her. “I’m here to help. Use me any way you want,” she offered glibly, putting her hands out, wrist-side up.
With Andy’s hands held that way, Cris wasn’t sure if Andy wanted to be put to work, or handcuffed as punishment for being so glib.
“Please don’t tempt me like that,” Cris warned her sister. “I’m only so strong.”
Andy inclined her head, a grin curving her lips. “Duly noted. Okay, where do you need
me?” she asked, looking around the kitchen as if an assignment would just pop up.
There was still so much to choose from, it was difficult deciding, Cris thought. The kind of help Andy could offer came under the heading “grunt labor,” same as Shane’s. Andy’s culinary skills left a lot to be desired.
Most likely Shane, who was looking on in amusement, was a better cook than Andy—even if he was as bad as he said.
“I need a bunch of the carrots peeled,” Cris finally said.
“And those are—?” Andy asked, leaving the end of her question dangling as she looked around the immediate area again and saw nothing
“Right over here,” Shane told her. He led Andy over to the unopened sack of baby carrots by the supply closet. “I noticed them when I got the potatoes,” he told Cris in response to her impressed expression.
“So she’s already enlisted you into her kitchen corps?” Andy asked as she stood back, allowing Shane to heft the bag in question up for her. He placed it on a secondary worktable.
“I volunteered,” he corrected, “just the way that you did.”
Andy glanced over her shoulder at her sister, her light blue eyes dancing with what appeared to be enjoyment.
“And here I was, feeling sorry for you. That’ll teach me.” She laughed.
Cris didn’t want to be the object of pity: she wanted Andy helping simply because she wanted to.
“Thought you might want to help just because it’s a family celebration. The kind of thing you can look back on and talk about when you’re surrounded with grandkids of your own.”
Andy laughed as she shook her head. The scenario was way too perfect. “I don’t know what kind of grandkids you have in your world, Cris, but in mine, kids tune out everything and everyone except for their peers and whatever they want to hear. By the time they’re ready to listen to stories from their parents or grandparents about ‘the olden days’ the person who can tell them those stories has passed on to the next world.”
“She always this cheerful?” Shane asked Cris good-naturedly as he nodded at her sister.
“Just this semester,” Cris answered. “It’s the psychology course she’s taking. I think it’s called Cynic 101.”
Andy frowned as she raised her eyes to her sister’s face. “I can hear you, you know.”
“That’s debatable,” Cris answered. Andy only heard what she wanted to hear. “By the way, what have you done with your nephew? I thought you got the short straw and were going to watch him while I prepared the customary fantastic Thanksgiving dinner,” she said, doing her best to sound serious.
“Dad volunteered to take over with Ricky. I think he misses hanging out with the little guy since Ricky started kindergarten. Apparently Ricky’s teacher wants them to make a diorama depicting the first Thanksgiving feast and bring it in right after the holiday.”
“Why would she want it after Thanksgiving?” It seemed odd to do it after the fact. To her it seemed only natural to move on with the course work.
“Maybe she wants to extend the season,” Shane suggested.
“Maybe. So is Dad helping Ricky with this diorama?” she asked Andy.
Andy shook her head. It was part of the reason she’d pulled a disappearing act. “Stevi started to take over, doing this elaborate scene with feathers and all—you know how Stevi can get.”
“Tell me about it.” Cris laughed.
“Well, Dad said that Ricky needed to do it himself—like any teacher would believe a five-year-old could put together that scene Stevi created,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I just quietly got out of there before things could get really ugly.”
Cris suddenly came up with an idea. “Why don’t you go back and take Ricky to Ms. Carlyle’s room?” she suggested.
The moment Cris’s words were out, Andy’s expression lit up like a skylight at high noon. “Of course,” she cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You can’t be brilliant all the time,” Cris deadpanned.
Andy pursed her lips in a semipout. “Now who’s being sarcastic?”
Cris feigned innocence. “I haven’t got the foggiest. Now go knock on Ms. Carlyle’s door and find out if it’s all right to bring Ricky over to her. Personally,” she confided, “I think she’ll love it. Nothing like feeling useful, no matter what your age.”
“On my way,” Andy declared, already crossing to the kitchen door. “Oh, and don’t feel bad if you don’t leave me anything to do here,” she interjected, waving a hand about the kitchen.
“No chance of that,” Cris called after her. “Still lots to do for when you get back.”
“Ms. Carlyle?” Shane asked the moment Andy had hurried out of the kitchen. “Who’s that?”
A fond smile curved Cris’s lips as she got back to peeling potatoes.
“Ms. Anne Josephine Carlyle,” Cris said, “is the inn’s only permanent guest. She taught elementary school—fifth grade mostly from what she said. Every summer she and a bunch of her teacher friends would get together and tour some European country or other, then come to the inn to spend a week before returning to their respective schools in the fall.
“Little by little, the group of friends grew smaller and smaller. As Ms. Carlyle became less mobile, her stays here became longer and longer. When she finally retired and most of her friends had either died or moved away, she spent more and more time here. Eventually, she asked Dad if she could live here permanently.”
Cris smiled as she recalled the story that had been told and retold so often she knew the words by heart. “Ms. Carlyle made it sound like she was the one doing him a favor, keeping one of the rooms leased all year round. She told him she would only agree if he gave her a ‘reasonable’ rate, reasonable in this case being cheaper than the surrounding inns.
“As if Dad would ever take advantage of anyone.” Cris slipped another fully peeled potato into the giant bowl of water to keep the potato from turning brown. “She’s been here a number of years now and to be honest, when I was growing up at the inn, Ms. Carlyle was the first guest I ever took any note of. She’s actually a walking treasure trove of the inn’s history if you ever want to know anything. When Wyatt was writing that book about the inn Uncle Dan had started, he relied a lot on Ms. Carlyle and her incredible memory.”
“Remind me to pick up a copy of that book,” Shane told her.
Maybe she was reading something into his words, but it seemed to her Shane was really interested in a subject dear to her heart. That made it all rather nice, she thought.
“I’ll lend you my copy,” Cris offered. “By the way, it was very sweet of you coming to my ‘rescue’ like that.”
Shane looked at her quizzically for a second before he realized what she was talking about. “Oh, you mean saying that you had something in your eye.” It wasn’t so much a question as checking that he’d recalled the right scenario.
Cris nodded. “You’re pretty quick on your feet,” she commented. “Get much call for being so creative?” she couldn’t help asking. The question had been nagging at her since he’d come up with the excuse.
“If you’re asking whether I make things up a lot, no, I don’t. But your sister had a very amused expression on her face and I couldn’t tell if you wanted her to know that I’d kissed you. I figured that this way, telling her or not telling her would be up to you.
“But as a rule, no, I don’t fabricate things. Or lie,” he spelled out in case that was still in question.
“Lies only get you into trouble because half the time you can’t remember what it was you lied about.”
She paused for a moment, weighing the issue—and drew a conclusion. “I take it you’re not speaking from experience.”
He laughed shortly. “Not directly, no. But Wade, my brother, he tended to be very, um, ‘creative.’ It
got him into a lot of hot water more than once. He liked me to cover for him and used to get really bent out of shape when I didn’t. Eventually, though, he came around to my way of thinking.”
“Your sterling example rubbed off on him?” Cris asked.
“No, I think it was more a case that he couldn’t keep his stories straight and one of the women he was stringing along decided to give away all his possessions. He was engaged to her at the time and she found out he was also ‘engaged’ to three other local women. Anyway, she gave his things to Good Will, including his car. He got the car back, but not the girl. That was when he decided that just maybe he needed to clean up his act.”
“And did he?” Cris asked, fascinated despite herself. She’d long since stopped peeling.
“As far as I know. Besides, if he ever has a relapse, his wife will probably kill him. Eva loves him a lot, but she’s not one of those little meek ladies who’ll suffer in silence. If Eva’s suffering, everyone’s suffering,” he told her with a warm laugh.
“Sounds like you get along with her,” she noted.
He grinned, recalling a few incidents. He’d been best man at his brother’s wedding. “I do.”
How hard it was when family members moved to different states. She knew how lonely she’d be if her sisters moved away. “Too bad you can’t go back east for the holidays.”
His eyes when they met hers held a meaningful look. “There are compensations,” he assured her.
The remark warmed her heart for more than the next few hours.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CRIS LOOKED AROUND at the people seated on both sides of the long, festive table.
A sense of pride, combined with a wave of sensitivity and sentiment that she usually didn’t allow herself to feel, whispered through her.
She savored the feeling for only a brief moment. It was all the time she would allow herself.
Normally she kept a tight lid on sentiment since it usually made her feel weepy.
A WEDDING FOR CHRISTMAS Page 10