Holiday Wishes

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m a likable person.” She smiled, glancing back at him, only to find him staring at her again with that not-quite-pleased look in his eyes. “At least in most cases. If you’d just put that on the back seat, I’ll have it filled up for you.”

  “It’s not a problem.” Mac replaced her gas cap and kept the empty can. “We’re friendly in Taylor’s Grove. In most cases.”

  “Let me know when I’m off probation.” She leaned into her car to set the brownies on the passenger seat. Mac had a tantalizing and uncomfortable view of her jean-clad bottom. He could smell her, too, something light and spicy that spun in his head a lot more potently than the gas fumes.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Her head popped back out of the car. She licked a smear of brownie from her finger as she straightened. “Maybe not. In any case, I appreciate the help.” Her grin flashed as she opened the car door. “And the chocolate.”

  “Anytime,” he heard himself say, and wanted to regret it.

  She settled behind the steering wheel, tossed him a quick, saucy smile. “Like hell.” Then she laughed and turned the ignition, revving the engine in a way that made Mac wince. “You should drop in on rehearsals now and again, Mac, instead of waiting out in the parking lot. You might learn something.”

  He wasn’t certain he wanted to. “Put on your seat belt,” he ordered.

  “Oh, yeah.” Obligingly, she buckled up. “Just not used to it yet. Say bye to the twins.” She zoomed off at a speed just this side of reckless, waving a careless and glittering hand out the window.

  Mac watched her until she rounded the bend, then slowly rubbed his stomach where the muscles were knotted. Something about that woman, he thought. Something about the way she was put together made him feel like he was defrosting after a very long freeze.

  Chapter 3

  Another half hour, Mac figured, and he could finish taping the drywall in the master bedroom. Maybe get the first coat of mud on. He glanced at his watch, calculated that the kids were home from school. But it was Mrs. Hollis’s day, and she’d stay until five. That would give him plenty of time to hit the drywall, clean up and get home.

  Maybe he’d give himself and the kids a treat and pick up pizza.

  He’d learned not to mind cooking, but he still resented the time it took—the thinking, the preparation, the cleaning up afterward. Six years as a single parent had given him a whole new perspective on how hard his mother—that rare and old-fashioned homemaker—had worked.

  Pausing a moment, he took a look around the master suite. He’d taken walls out, built others, replaced the old single-pane windows with double-glazed. Twin skylights let in the fading sunlight of early October.

  Now there were three spacious bedrooms on the second floor of the old house, rather than the four choppy rooms and oversize hallway he’d started with. The master suite would boast a bathroom large enough for a tub and a separate shower stall. He was toying with using glass block for that. He’d been wanting to work with it for some time.

  If he stayed on schedule, the place would be put together by Christmas, and on the sale or rental market by the first of the year.

  He really should sell it, Mac thought, running a hand over the drywall he’d nailed up that afternoon. He had to get over this sense of possession whenever he worked on a house.

  In the blood, he supposed. His father had made a good living buying up damaged or depressed property, rehabbing and renting. Mac had discovered just how satisfying it was to own something you’d made fine with your own hands.

  Like the old brick house Nell lived in now. He wondered if she knew it was more than a hundred and fifty years old, that she was living in a piece of history.

  He wondered if she’d run out of gas again.

  He wondered quite a bit about Nell Davis.

  And he shouldn’t, Mac reminded himself, and turned away for his tools and tape. Women were trouble. One way or the other, they were trouble. One look at Nell and a smart man could see she was no exception.

  He hadn’t taken her up on her suggestion that he drop by the auditorium and catch part of a rehearsal. He’d started to a couple of times, but good sense had stopped him. She was the first woman in a very, very long time who had stirred him up. He didn’t want to be stirred up, Mac thought with a scowl as he taped a seam. Couldn’t afford to be, he reminded himself. He had too many obligations, too little free time, and, most important, two sons who were the focus of his life.

  Daydreaming about a woman was bad enough. It made a man sloppy in his work, forgetful and . . . itchy. But doing something about it was worse. Doing something meant you had to find conversation and ways to entertain. A woman expected to be taken places, and pampered. And once you started to fall for her—really fall for her—she had the power to cut out your heart.

  Mac wasn’t willing to risk his heart again, and he certainly wasn’t willing to risk his sons’.

  He didn’t subscribe to that nonsense about children needing a woman’s touch, a mother’s love. The twins’ mother had felt less connection with the children she’d borne than a cat felt toward a litter of kittens. Being female didn’t give you a leg up on maternal feelings. It meant you were physically able to carry a child inside you, but it didn’t mean that you’d care once that child was in your arms.

  Mac stopped taping and swore. He hadn’t thought about Angie in years. Not deeply. When he did, he realized the spot was still sore, like an old wound that had healed poorly. That was what he got, he supposed, for letting some little blonde stir him up.

  Annoyed with himself, he stripped the last piece of tape off the roll. He needed to concentrate on his work, not on a woman. Determined to finish what he’d started, he marched down the stairs. He had more drywall tape in his truck.

  The light outside was softening with the approach of dusk. Shorter days, he thought. Less time.

  He was down the steps and onto the walk before he saw her. She was standing just at the edge of the yard, looking up at the house, smiling a little. She wore a suede jacket in a deep burnished orange over faded jeans. Some glittery stones dangled from her ears. Over her shoulder hung a soft-sided briefcase that looked well used.

  “Oh. Hi.” Surprise lit her eyes when she glanced over, and that immediately made him suspicious. “Is this one of your places?”

  “That’s right.” He moved past her toward the truck and wished he’d held his breath. That scent she wore was subtle and sneaky.

  “I was just admiring it. Beautiful stonework. It looks so sturdy and safe, tucked in with all the trees.” She took a deep breath. There was the slap of fall in the air. “It’s going to be a beautiful night.”

  “I guess.” He found his tape, then stood, running the roll around in his hands. “Did you run out of gas again?”

  “No.” She laughed, obviously amused at herself. “I like walking around town this time of day. As a matter of fact, I was heading down to your sister’s. She’s a few doors down, right?”

  His eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the idea of the woman he was spending too much time thinking about hanging out with his sister. “Yeah, that’s right. Why?”

  “Why?” Her attention had been focused on his hands. There was something about them. Hard, callused. Big. She felt a quick and very pleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach. “Why what?”

  “Why are you going to Mira’s?”

  “Oh. I have some sheet music I thought Kim would like.”

  “Is that right?” He leaned on the truck, measuring her. Her smile was entirely too friendly, he decided. Entirely too attractive. “Is it part of your job description to make house calls with sheet music?”

  “It’s part of the fun.” Her hair ruffled in the light breeze. She scooped it back. “No job’s worth the effort or the headaches if you don’t have some fun.
” She looked back at the house. “You have fun, don’t you? Taking something and making it yours?”

  He started to say something snide, then realized she’d put her finger right on the heart of it. “Yeah. It doesn’t always seem like fun when you’re tearing out ceilings and having insulation raining down on your head.” He smiled a little. “But it is.”

  “Are you going to let me see?” She tilted her head. “Or are you like a temperamental artist, not willing to show his work until the final brushstroke?”

  “There’s not much to see.” Then he shrugged. “Sure, you can come in if you want.”

  “Thanks.” She started up the walk, glanced over her shoulder when he stayed by the truck. “Aren’t you going to give me a tour?”

  He moved his shoulders again, and joined her.

  “Did you do the trim on my apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s beautiful work. Looks like cherry.”

  He frowned, surprised. “It is cherry.”

  “I like the rounded edges. They soften everything. Do you get a decorator in for the colors or pick them out yourself?”

  “I pick them.” He opened the door for her. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. I really love the color scheme in the kitchen, the slate blue counters, the mauve floor. Oh, what fabulous stairs.” She hurried across the unfinished living area to the staircase.

  Mac had worked hard and long on it, tearing out the old and replacing it with dark chestnut, curving and widening the landing at the bottom so that it flowed out into the living space.

  It was, undeniably, his current pride and joy.

  “Did you build these?” she murmured, running a hand over the curve of the railing.

  “The old ones were broken, dry-rotted. Had to go.”

  “I have to try them.” She dashed up, turning back at the top to grin at him. “No creaks. Good workmanship, but not very sentimental.”

  “Sentimental?”

  “You know, the way you look back on home, how you snuck downstairs as a kid and knew just which steps to avoid because they’d creak and wake up Mom.”

  All at once he was having trouble with his breathing. “They’re chestnut,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.

  “Whatever, they’re beautiful. Whoever lives here has to have kids.”

  His mouth was dry, unbearably. “Why?”

  “Because.” On impulse, she planted her butt on the railing and pushed off. Mac’s arms came out of their own volition to catch her as she flew off the end. “It was made for sliding,” she said breathlessly. She was laughing as she tilted her head up to his.

  Something clicked inside her when their eyes met. And the fluttering, not so pleasant this time, came again. Disconcerted, she cleared her throat and searched for something to say.

  “You keep popping up,” Mac muttered. He had yet to release her, couldn’t seem to make his hands obey his head.

  “It’s a small town.”

  He only shook his head. His hands were at her waist now, and they seemed determined to slide around and stroke up her back. He thought he felt her tremble—but it might have been him.

  “I don’t have time for women,” he told her, trying to convince himself.

  “Well.” She tried to swallow, but there was something hard and hot lodged in her throat. “I’m pretty busy myself.” She let out a slow breath. Those hands stroking up and down her back were making her weak. “And I’m not really interested. I had a really bad year, as far as relationships go. I think . . .”

  It was very hard to think. His eyes were such a beautiful shade of blue, and so intensely focused on hers. She wasn’t sure what he saw, or what he was looking for, but she knew her knees were about to give out.

  “I think,” she began again, “we’d both be better off if you decide fairly quickly if you’re going to kiss me or not. I can’t handle this much longer.”

  Neither could he. Still, he took his time. He was, in all things, a thorough and thoughtful man. His eyes were open and on hers as he lowered his head, as his mouth hovered a breath from hers, as a small, whimpering moan sounded in her throat.

  Her vision dimmed as his lips brushed hers. His were soft, firm, terrifyingly patient. The whisper of contact slammed a punch into her stomach. He lingered over her like a gourmet sampling delicacies, deepening the kiss degree by staggering degree until she was clinging to him.

  No one had ever kissed her like this. She hadn’t known anyone could. Slow and deep and dreamy. The floor seemed to tilt under her feet as he gently sucked her lower lip into his mouth.

  She shuddered, groaned, and let herself drown.

  She was very potent. The scent and feel and taste of her was overwhelming. He knew he could lose himself here, for a moment, for a lifetime. Her small, tight body was all but plastered to his. Her hands clutched his hair. In contrast to that aggressive gesture, her head fell limply back in a kind of sighing surrender that had his blood bubbling.

  He wanted to touch her. His hands were aching with the need to peel off layer after layer and find the pale, smooth skin beneath. To test himself, and her, he slipped his fingers under her sweater, along the soft, hot flesh of her back, while his mouth continued its long, lazy assault on hers.

  He imagined laying her down on the floor, on a tarp, on the grass. He imagined watching her face as he pleasured them both, feeling her arch toward him, open, accepting.

  It had been too long, he told himself as his muscles began to coil and his lungs to labor. It had just been too long.

  But he didn’t believe it. And it frightened him.

  Unsteady, he lifted his head, drew back. Even as he began the retreat, she leaned against him, letting her head fall onto his chest. Unable to resist, he combed his fingers through her hair and cradled her there.

  “My head’s spinning,” she murmured. “What was that?”

  “It was a kiss, that’s all.” He needed to believe that. It would help to ease the tightness around his heart and his loins.

  “I think I saw stars.” Still staggered, she shifted so that she could look up at him. Her lips curved, but her eyes didn’t echo the smile. “That’s a first for me.”

  If he didn’t do something fast, he was going to kiss her again. He set her firmly on her feet. “It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Was there something to change?”

  The light was nearly gone now. It helped that he couldn’t see her clearly in the gloom. “I don’t have time for women. And I’m just not interested in starting anything.”

  “Oh.” Where had that pain come from? she wondered, and had to fight to keep from rubbing a hand over her heart. “That was quite a kiss, for a disinterested man.” Reaching down, she scooped up the briefcase she’d dropped before she’d run up the stairs. “I’ll get out of your way. I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your valuable time.”

  “You don’t have to get huffy about it.”

  “Huffy.” Her teeth snapped together. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I’m well beyond huffy, pal, and working my way past steamed. You’ve got some ego, Mac. What, do you think I came around here to seduce you?”

  “I don’t know why you came around.”

  “Well, I won’t be around again.” She settled her briefcase on her shoulder, jerked her chin up. “Nobody twisted your arm.”

  He was dealing with an uncomfortable combination of desire and guilt. “Yours, either.”

  “I’m not the one making excuses. You know, I can’t figure out how such an insensitive clod could raise two charming and adorable kids.”

  “Leave my boys out of this.”

  The edge to the order had her eyes narrowing to slits. “Oh, so I have designs on them now, too? You idiot!” She stormed for the door, whi
rling at the last moment for a parting shot. “I hope they don’t inherit your warped view of the female species!”

  She slammed the door hard enough to have the bad-tempered sound echoing through the house. Mac scowled and jammed his hands in his pockets. He didn’t have a warped view, damn it. And his kids were his business.

  Chapter 4

  Nell stood center stage and lifted her hands. She waited until she was sure every student’s eyes were on her, then let it rip.

  There was very little that delighted her more than the sound of young voices raised in song. She let the sound fill her, keeping her ears and eyes sharp as she moved around the stage, directing. She couldn’t hold back the grin. The kids were into this one. Doing Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” was a departure from the standard carols and hymns their former choral director had arranged year after year.

  She could see their eyes light up as they got into the rhythm. Now punch it, she thought, pulling more from the bass section as they hit the chorus. Have fun with it. Now the soprano section, high and bright . . . And the altos . . . Tenors . . . Bass . . .

  She flashed a smile to signal her approval as the chorus flowered again.

  “Good job,” she announced. “Tenors, a little more next time. You guys don’t want the bass section drowning you out. Holly, you’re dropping your chin again. Now we have time for one more run-through of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ Kim?”

  Kim tried to ignore the little flutter around her heart and the elbow nudge from Holly. She stepped down from her position in the second row and stood in front of the solo mike as though she were facing a firing squad.

  “It’s okay to smile, you know,” Nell told her gently. “And remember your breathing. Sing to the last row, and don’t forget to feel the words. Tracy.” She held out a finger toward the pianist she’d dragooned from her second-period music class.

  The intro started quietly. Using her hands, her face, her eyes, Nell signaled the beginning of the soft, harmonious background humming. Then Kim began to sing. Too tentatively at first. Nell knew they would have to work on those initial nerves.