by Nalini Singh
“You’re not supposed to leave. I know you don’t believe in signs, Matthew, but we were meant to meet. We were meant to be together, here, like this. And I can’t believe that the universe went to all the trouble to set this up, just to give us one night of great sex.”
“Holly—”
“There has to be more to it than that. There has to be.”
He sighed, and lowered his head. “It was coincidence. That’s all. There’s no deeper meaning, no universe plotting our lives. Things just happen, Holly. This…just happened. That’s all.”
She lowered her head, nodded. “Your keys are on the mantle. I’ll get them for you.” And with that, she walked back to the house, through the door. Angrily, she tugged off her mittens and brushed away her tears. Then she took the box she’d wrapped in old newspapers and decorated with a piece of pine all twisted around with a bit of her popcorn and cranberry garland. She picked up his key ring, and blinked her eyes as dry as possible, then she went back outside.
“What’s this?” he asked when she handed him the box.
“It’s a Christmas present.” She shrugged. “It’s stupid, really. Just something I thought…” She let the words die. “I, um—I put my phone number in there, too. I mean, at least that way, when you don’t call, I’ll know it’s because you don’t want to, and not because you don’t know how to reach me.”
“Holly—”
“Just go, okay? Just go, Matthew.”
He sighed deeply. She couldn’t keep the tears back any longer, so she turned and ran back into the house, fast, because she didn’t want to lose it in front of him and make him feel worse than he already did. It wasn’t exactly fair—she’d told him she wouldn’t make anything out of this, and then she had.
And yet, she couldn’t help it.
Leaning back against the door, she waited until she heard the Porsche start up and pull slowly away. And then she cried her eyes out.
Eleven
HE MANAGED TO DRIVE FOR ABOUT TWO HOURS BEFORE HE had to stop for gas and food and to kick himself a little more thoroughly than he had been for the last hundred miles. What the hell was wrong with him? He was fighting the most irrational urge to turn the damn car around and go racing back there. And what good would that do? It wasn’t like there was any future for the two of them. It wasn’t like you could meet someone and fall in love in freaking twenty-four hours. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real.
Okay, maybe it felt possible. But that was nonsense. You couldn’t form the basis of a relationship in one day. You couldn’t. It just didn’t happen. There was no such thing as love at first sight. Maybe infatuation. Maybe great sex even, but not love.
It didn’t happen. And there were no signs, and he was not meant to be with her. It was all coincidence. That’s all. Coincidence.
He sat in the car outside the diner, where he’d stopped for a quick lunch. He had an hour to spare before his flight, and only a few more minutes to the airport. But for some asinine reason, he couldn’t convince himself to go inside. Not just yet. He was eyeing the box, the gift Holly had given him, and knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of that car until he opened it. Because he was wallowing in feeling guilty for hurting her, and the gift, whatever it was, would certainly make him feel even worse, so he might as well take it.
Love at first sight. Bullshit. And this was just one more Christmas to add to the list of horrible ones. One more pile of the romantic crap people heaped on the holidays. If it hadn’t been Christmas, she might not have been quite so vulnerable.
It was like she thought her mother had delivered him to her as a Christmas present. The way she did the tree.
And how about that tree, anyway? She said there would be one, and then there was. How the hell did that work out?
“Coincidence,” he said. “Tell you what, Holly’s mom. If you’re so good at communicating from beyond the grave, why don’t you send me a message or two? Or better yet, have my dad send me one. Prove to me this is real and I’ll go back there so fast your freaking heads will spin.”
He sat still a minute, caught himself waiting, watching, listening, looking all around, as if he really expected something to happen.
“Idiot.”
Sighing, he took the bit of pine with its popcorn and cranberry strand off the package, and then he tore the newspapers off it. It was an old cardboard box she’d probably found in the attic. On the front was a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read, “Thanks. Last night was the best Christmas present I ever got. This gift isn’t the original, but I’ve had it for years, and I always loved it. I thought maybe you’d enjoy it, too.” She’d signed it, “Love, Holly,” and jotted her phone number underneath her name.
If he was smart, he’d crumple that paper up and toss it out the window.
But he wasn’t smart, because he folded it and tucked it into his pocket instead.
Then he took the lid off the box.
Inside was a hat. An old, black felt fedora.
His throat closed off. He couldn’t even breathe for a second. And he thought his hand was shaking as he picked the hat up out of the box and turned it slowly in his hands. My God, it was exactly—maybe a little more worn but—no. It wasn’t the same hat. Of course it wasn’t. But it was so like that old hat that lived in his memory—so very much like it that he couldn’t help himself.
He turned it over, and looked at the tag that was sewn into the lining.
The initials were there. Faded, barely readable, but there. His father’s initials.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, but right then, Matthew came close. His eyes were burning and so blurry that he could barely see. Because if this wasn’t a sign, if this wasn’t some kind of magic, he didn’t know what was. He lifted his head, and whispered, “Dad?”
A truck pulled into the parking lot beside him. It was an orange truck and the men inside looked to be a road crew. There were signs in the back. One, the one facing him that caught his eye, read, “WRONG WAY. GO BACK.”
A smile split his face. He nodded hard. “All right, Dad. I’m going.”
He put the hat on his head, almost laughing out loud as he adjusted it to the same cocky tilt his dad always used. Then he turned the car around, and headed north on I-81.
HOLLY CRIED UNTIL SHE WAS SPENT, AND THEN SHE PICKED herself up, told herself to stop being pathetic, and to do her best to enjoy Christmas. For her mom’s sake, she could do that.
She decorated her tree, stringing the popcorn and cranberry garland all over it, and topping it with a foil-and-cardboard star. At 4 p.m. the power came back on. She set her table—an upturned crate in front of the sofa, topped with a bath towel for a tablecloth. She’d brought some real china for the occasion, even had two tall taper candles, one red, one green, in crystal holders to add the finishing touch. And wineglasses, one of which she filled.
Her holiday dinner was keeping warm in the oven. Turkey breast, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, mixed veggies, squash, and pumpkin pie. It was more than one person could hope to eat. More than four or five could probably manage, but she would try to do it justice.
But first, as long as the power was on, she decided to take a long, hot shower, and put on the dress she’d brought along. She always dressed for the holiday. And this one would be no different.
The shower was soothing, but she battled loneliness through the whole thing. If only Matthew would have stayed one more night. If only he would have celebrated Christmas with her.
Oh, but he was right. One more night would have only left her wanting another, and another, and more after that. It was probably better he left when he did.
She lingered in the bathroom, dried her hair, put on makeup and high heels. It was Christmas, after all. She donned the long red dress. It was pretty, slinky and clingy.
And then she opened the bathroom door and heard music. She blinked, wondering if she’d left the radio on, or if her mother was getting even more t
alented in cross-plane communications. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing on the radio. It brought a teary smile to her face.
She walked slowly down the stairs, humming along, and stepped into the living room. All of her food was on the makeshift table. Her candles were lit, and the other lights were turned off.
Matthew was standing by the fire, staring at the flames, sipping a glass of wine. The hat was perched on his head. She froze, just stood there, staring at him, wondering if he was some kind of an illusion. When he looked up and saw her, he set the wineglass on the mantle.
“I’d have been back sooner, but I had a stop to make.”
She wanted to rush into his arms. She wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to kiss his face off. But she forced herself to wait, to walk slowly to him, and not touch him. Not yet.
He took the hat off and said, “Where did you get this, Holly?”
“From my Aunt Sheila. She got it from a homeless man who used to frequent the diner. He found it rolling down the street, he said. I’ve always liked quirky things like that, so she gave it to me.” She shrugged. “When you told me about your dad’s hat, I thought this might be like it, so—”
“It’s not just like my dad’s hat. Holly, this is my dad’s hat.”
She blinked. “I don’t—”
“He put his initials inside. They’re there. This is the same hat.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
“I think it’s a sign. I mean, how could my dad’s hat make its way from Flint, Michigan, to here? Why would it end up with you? Unless…somehow, we were…meant to…”
“Meant to…what?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I know I want to find out.” He handed her a card, in a large envelope, and she opened it. A couple of kids, a boy and a girl, building a snowman was on the front. She opened it and read the inside. “You’re why I love Christmas,” it read.
Her tears spilled over, and she flung herself into his arms.
“I want to buy this house,” he told her, holding her close. “But not to flip it. I want us to fix it up together, and spend time here together, and just…just see where things lead.”
“You mean you don’t know where they’re going to lead?”
He stared into her eyes, searching them. “Do you?”
She smiled. “Yeah. We’re going to live happily ever after.”
He smiled slowly as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Okay.”
CHARLOTTE’S WEB
Erin McCarthy
One
“I JUST HAVE ONE QUESTION,” WILL THORNTON SAID CASUALLY as he stood on a ladder and nailed fresh evergreen swags above Charlotte Murphy’s front door.
“What?” Charlotte dragged her gaze off the seat of Will’s jeans with a significant amount of effort, refusing to feel guilty. Lord, Will was slow sometimes. Her arms were straining under the weight of the boughs she was holding for him and her feet were getting cold in a hurry. Checking out the view he provided at eye level from his position on the ladder was fair compensation for the discomfort she was enduring.
“Who just grabbed my ass?”
Charlotte almost fell off the front step. “What? What are you talking about?” Okay, so maybe she had entertained the idea once—or nine hundred times—of cupping his backside and giving a nice, hard little squeeze, but she would never act on it. Probably. She was pretty sure. But definitely if she did, she would know it. Savor it. Make it count.
“Someone just copped a feel, and since I can see you out of the corner of my eye, and your hands are full, I was just wondering if you could tell whoever did it that it’s not wise to grope a man on a ladder, unless she wants me to break my neck.”
Glancing around to confirm what she knew, Charlotte frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nobody here but us.” And her libido.
“Your sister did it, didn’t she? That sounds like Bree.” Will reached for another swag and Charlotte passed it up to him.
“Bree went shopping an hour ago.” Which was classic Bree. Ditch out doing the Christmas decorating for their house with an excuse about getting pomegranates for a centerpiece. Like there were any pomegranates in the tiny grocery in Cuttersville, Ohio. Bree just wanted to peruse the bookstore, gossip at the hair salon, and stay out long enough to avoid having to drag all the boxes of ornaments out of the basement.
“Abby?” Will asked doubtfully.
“Abby! My baby sister, who is only seventeen, need I remind you, did not touch your butt, Will. No one did.” For crying out loud, did he want someone to touch it? If she were a little bolder, she’d just reach out and smack it right now to really give him something to think about. But she wasn’t bold. She was the opposite of bold—she was pastel pink on the color wheel.
“Someone did. I know what I felt.” Now his voice sounded stubborn, his hammer pounding harder.
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Course not.”
That was irritating. He didn’t think she could, or would, or didn’t think she should? How was it that he could suspect her little sister, a junior in high school, of grabbing him, but she was a no way, never happen? Was she so staid and boring and vanilla that it would never occur to him that she did actually have a sex drive, though it was well hidden and brought out only on special occasions like full moons and when the annual firefighters’ hottie calendar hit the bookstore in town?
“Then I guess it was just wishful thinking, Will, because we’re the only two people standing here.”
“Huh,” he said, leaning against the ladder for support and glancing left and right. “That’s really weird.”
What was weird was that never once in the last eight years had Will so much as suspected she liked him more than was appropriate for good friends. Yet she did. She loved him with a passion and urgency that was just downright embarrassing when she allowed herself to ponder it—or wallow, which was probably more frequently.
But he didn’t seem to be on to her. To Will, she was just Charlotte, his best pal. Damn it.
Irritating as hell, but there it was. And she’d never had the guts to do anything but wait for him miraculously to come to his senses and figure out what was standing right in front of him. Which was a really sucky strategy, because so far Will hadn’t been stricken with any epiphanies that they should really be Cuttersville’s number one couple.
“Maybe it was the wind.”
He scoffed and yanked another bough out of her arms. “Wind doesn’t squeeze like that.”
“Then it must have been a ghost,” she said in exasperation.
She expected him to reject that ridiculous suggestion as well, but instead his brown eyes went wide. “That’s a disturbing thought.”
“There are no ghosts. I was kidding. Ghosts don’t exist.”
“Your grandmother said they did.” Will took the last strand, much to her relief, and moved down the ladder so he could complete the arch around the door at the bottom left.
“My grandma—God rest her soul—was crocked. Sure she believed in ghosts, but she also said I’m a witch, and we know how crazy that is.”
Will grinned at her, revealing his white teeth and dimples. How could he not realize how freaking cute he was? Charlotte thought it defied explanation that he didn’t see the adoration that just had to be scrawled across her face. Apparently she’d missed her calling as an actress when she’d decided to open a coffee shop for a living, because Will didn’t give so much as a hint that he saw her as anything but asexual.
“Yeah, you’re not really the witch type.”
“Who is the witch type?” And why did that suddenly make her feel lousy? It was that excitement thing again…she was neither a butt grabber nor a spell caster in Will’s eyes. So what exactly was she to him? She probably didn’t want the answer to that.
“Bree’s the witch type.”
“God, don’t tell her that. She already thinks we should take up our ‘heritage’ and join a coven,
and she’s forever running on about her so-called empathic abilities.” Charlotte stomped her feet a little to get the blood flowing. She wore only ballet flats, not boots, and the cold was seeping in. Ramming her hands deeper into the pockets of her black puffy coat, she waited impatiently as Will slowly pulled the ladder off the house and dropped it down.
“Actually, Abby acts devious enough to be one, too. She does that evil eye thing when she’s mad at you.”
“Again, don’t encourage her, either. She’s already gone completely Goth, right along with Bree. And Abby has been known to brag about the well-known fact that she was conceived in a cemetery.” A source of mortification since Charlotte had been old enough to understand it, she had often wondered what kind of woman got it on in the graveyard. Finally, she had concluded that the answer was simply that the kind of woman who got turned on in a graveyard was her mother. As for her father, it was no secret to anyone that he happily gave his wife whatever she wanted, which explained both Abby’s unusual conception and the fact that her parents were currently on a two-week tour of America’s most haunted prisons. There was just no point in wondering sometimes.
Will lifted the ladder sideways and headed toward the garage with it. “Still amazes me that you have blond hair and your sisters are both brunettes. You don’t look anything like them.”
“I know. And you know how my mom feels about it. It drives her insane that I look like Malibu Barbie. Without the chest. Or the tiny waist. Or the bikini.”
Will laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. You might give Barbie a run for her money.”
If that were a compliment, she’d take it.
“And I’m sure your mother doesn’t care that you have blond hair.”
“Yes, she does.” Charlotte followed him, picking carefully over the snowy ground. “You know that Murphy girls are supposed to be weird. Interesting. Into crystals and piercings and flowing skirts. That’s Bree and Abby. I’m odd blonde out who turned the tarot shop I inherited from my grandmother into a Caribou Coffee. That’s blasphemy in the Murphy house, you know that.”