Maid Under the Mistletoe

by Maureen Child

  “Well,” she said when she was sure her voice would work again, “I’m going to straighten out the kitchen then paint pinecones with my daughter.”

  “Right.” He scrubbed one hand across his face. “I’ll be in the great room.”

  She stood up, gathered the bowls together and said, “Earlier today, Holly and I made some Christmas cookies. I’ll bring you a few with your coffee.”

  “Not necessary—”

  She held up one hand. “You can call them winter cookies if it makes you feel better.”

  He choked off a laugh, shook his head and started out of the room. Before he left, he turned to look back at her. “You don’t stop, do you?”

  “Nope.” He took another step and paused when she asked, “The real question is, do you want me to?”

  He didn’t speak, just gave her a long look out of thoughtful, chocolate-brown eyes, then left the room. Joy smiled to herself, because that nonanswer told her everything she wanted to know.

  Six

  Sam used to hate the night.

  The quiet. The feeling of being alone in the world. The seemingly endless hours of darkness. It had given him too much time to think. To remember. To torture himself with what-might-have-beens. He couldn’t sleep because memories became dreams that jolted him awake—or worse, lulled him into believing the last several years had never really happened. Then waking up became the misery, and so the cycle went.

  Until nearly a week ago. Until Joy.

  He had a fire blazing in the hearth as he waited for her. Night was now something he looked forward to. Being with her, hearing her voice, her laughter, had become the best part of his days. He enjoyed her quick mind, and her sense of humor—even when it was directed at him. He liked hearing her talk about what was happening in town, even though he didn’t know any of the people she told him about. He liked seeing her with her daughter, watching the love between them, even though it was like a knife to his heart.

  Sam hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought he wanted it. He rubbed his palms together, remembering the flash of heat that enveloped him when he’d taken her hand to seal their latest deal. He could see the flash in her eyes that told him she’d felt the same damn thing. And with the desire gripping him, guilt speared through Sam, as well. Everything he’d lost swam in his mind, reminding him that feeling, wanting, was a steep and slippery road to loss.

  He stared into the fire, listened to the hiss and snap of flame on wood, and for the first time in years, he tried to bring those long-abandoned memories to the surface. Watching the play of light and shadow, the dance of flames, Sam fought to draw his dead wife’s face into his mind. But the memory was indistinct, as if a fog had settled between them, making it almost impossible for him to remember just the exact shade of her brown eyes. The way her mouth curved in a smile. The fall of her hair and the set of her jaw when she was angry.

  It was all...hazy, and as he battled to remember Dani, it was Joy’s face that swam to the surface of his mind. The sound of her laughter. The scent of her. And he wanted to know the taste of her. What the hell was happening to him and why was he allowing it? Sam told himself to leave. To not be there when Joy came into the room. But as much as he knew he should, he also knew he wouldn’t.

  “I brought more cookies.”

  He turned in his chair to look at her, and even from across the room, he felt that now-familiar punch of awareness. Of heat. And he knew it was too late to leave.

  At her smile, one eyebrow lifted and he asked, “More reindeer and Santas?”

  That smile widened until it sparkled in her eyes. She walked toward him, carrying a tray that held the plate of cookies and two glasses of golden wine.

  “This time we have snowmen and wreaths and—” she paused “—winter trees.”

  He shook his head and sighed. It seemed she was determined to shove Christmas down his throat whether he liked it or not. “You’re relentless.”

  Why did he like that about her?

  “That’s been said before,” she told him and took her usual seat in the chair beside his. Setting the tray down on the table between them, she took a cookie then lifted her glass for a sip of wine.

  “Really. Cookies and wine.”

  “Separately, they’re both good,” she said, waving her cookie at the plate, challenging him to join her. “Together, they’re amazing.”

  The cookies were good, Sam thought, reaching out to pick one up and bite in. All he’d had to do was close his eyes so he wasn’t faced with iced, sprinkled Santas and they were just cookies. “Good.”

  “Thanks.” She sat back in the chair. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “What?”

  “Talking to me.” She folded her legs up beneath her, took another sip of her wine and continued. “We’ve been sitting in this room together for five nights now and usually, the only voice I hear is my own.”

  He frowned, took the wine and drank. Gave him an excuse for not addressing that remark. Of course, it was true, but that wasn’t the point. He hadn’t asked her to join him every night, had he? When she only looked at him, waiting, he finally said, “Didn’t seem to bother you any.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind talking to myself—”

  “No kidding.”

  She grinned. “But it’s more fun talking to other people.”

  Sam told himself not to notice how her hair shined golden in the firelight. How her eyes gleamed and her mouth curved as if she were always caught on the verge of a smile. His gaze dropped to the plain blue shirt she wore and how the buttons pulled across her chest. Her jeans were faded and soft, clinging to her legs as she curled up and got comfortable. Red polish decorated her toes. Why that gave him a quick, hot jolt, he couldn’t have said.

  Everything in him wanted to pull her out of that chair, wrap his arms around her and take her tantalizing mouth in a kiss that would sear both of them. And why, he asked himself, did he suddenly feel like a cheating husband? Because since Dani, no other woman had pulled at him like this. And even as he wanted Joy, he hated that he wanted her. The cookie turned to chalk in his mouth and he took a sip of wine to wash it down.

  “Okay, someone just had a dark thought,” she mused.

  “Stay out of my head,” Sam said, slanting her a look.

  Feeling desire didn’t mean that he welcomed it. Life had been—not easier—but more clear before Joy walked into his house. He’d known who he was then. A widower. A father without a child. And he’d wrapped himself up in memories designed to keep him separate from a world he wasn’t interested in anyway.

  Yet now, after less than a week, he could feel those layers of insulation peeling away and he wasn’t sure how to stop it or even if he wanted to. The shredding of his cloak of invisibility was painful and still he couldn’t stop it.

  Dinner with Joy and Holly had tripped him up, too, and he had a feeling she’d known it would. If he’d been smart, he would have walked out of the room as soon as he’d seen them at the table. But one look into Joy’s and Holly’s eyes had ended that idea before it could begin. So instead of having his solitary meal, he’d been part of a unit—and for a few minutes, he’d enjoyed it. Listening to Holly’s excited chatter, sharing knowing looks with Joy. Then, of course, he remembered that Joy and Holly weren’t his. And that was what he had to keep in mind.

  Taking another drink of the icy wine, he shifted his gaze to the fire. Safer to look into the flames than to stare at the deep blue of her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, finally responding to her last statement, “I don’t really talk to people anymore.”

  “No kidding.” She threw his earlier words back at him, and Sam nodded at the jab.

  “Kaye tends to steer clear of me most of the time.”

  “Kaye doesn’t like talking to people, either,” Joy said, laughing. “You two are
a match made in heaven.”

  “There’s a thought,” he muttered.

  She laughed again, and the sound of it filled every empty corner of the room. It was both balm and torture to hear it, to know he wanted to hear it. How was it possible that she’d made such an impact on him in such a short time? He hadn’t even noticed her worming her way past his defenses until it was impossible to block her.

  “So,” she asked suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts, “any idea where I can find a puppy?”

  “No,” he said shortly, then decided there was no reason to bark at her because he was having trouble dealing with her. He looked at her. “I don’t know people around here.”

  “See, you should,” she said, tipping her head to one side to look at him. “You’ve lived here five years, Sam.”

  “I didn’t move here for friends.” He came to the mountains to find the peace that still eluded him.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t make some.” Sighing, she turned her head to the flames. “If you did know people, you could help me on the puppy situation.” Shaking her head, she added, “I’ve got her princess dolls and a fairy princess dress and the other small things she asked for. The puppy worries me.”

  He didn’t want to think about children’s Christmas dreams. Sam remembered another child dictating letters to Santa and waking to the splendor of Christmas morning. And through the pain he also recalled how he and his wife had worked to make those dreams come true for their little boy. So, though he hated it, he said, “You could get her a stuffed puppy with a note that Santa will bring her the real thing as soon as the puppy’s ready for a new home.”

  She tipped her head to one side and studied him, a wide smile on her face. God, when she smiled, her eyes shone and something inside him fisted into knots.

  “A note from Santa himself? That’s a good idea. I think Holly would love that he’s going to make a special trip just for her.” Clearly getting into it, she continued, “I could make up a certificate or something. You know—” she deepened her voice for dramatic effect “—this is to certify that Holly Curran will be receiving a puppy from Santa as soon as the puppy is ready for a home.” Wrinkling her brow, she added thoughtfully, “Maybe I could draw a Christmas border on the paper and we could frame it for her—you know, with Santa’s signature—and hang it in her bedroom. It could become an heirloom, something she passes down to her kids.”

  He shrugged, as if it meant nothing, but in his head, he could see Holly’s excitement at a special visit from Santa after Christmas. But once December was done, he wouldn’t be seeing Joy or Holly again, so he wouldn’t know how the Santa promise went, would he? Frowning to himself, he tried to ignore the ripple of regret that swept through him.

  “Okay, I am not responsible for your latest frown.”

  “What?” He turned his head to look at her again.

  She laughed shortly. “Nothing. So, what’d you work on today?”

  “Seriously?” Usually she just launched into a monologue.

  “Well, you’re actually speaking tonight,” she said with a shrug, “so I thought I’d ask a question that wasn’t rhetorical.”

  “Right.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’m starting a new project.”

  “Another table?”

  “No.”

  “Talking,” she acknowledged, “but still far from chatty.”

  “Men are not chatty.”

  “Some men you can’t shut up,” she argued. “If it’s not a table you’re working on, what is it?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “You know, in theory, a job like that sounds wonderful.” She took a sip of wine. “But I do better with a schedule all laid out in front of me. I like knowing that website updates are due on Monday and newsletters have to go out on Tuesday, like that.”

  “I don’t like schedules.”

  She watched him carefully, and his internal radar went on alert. When a woman got that particular look in her eye—curiosity—it never ended well for a man.

  “Well,” she said softly, “if you haven’t decided on a project yet, you could give me some help with the Santa certificate.”

  “What do you mean?” He heard the wariness in his own voice.

  “I mean, you could draw Christmassy things around the borders, make it look beautiful.” She paused and when she spoke again, the words came so softly they were almost lost in the hiss and snap of the fire in front of them. “You used to paint.”

  And in spite of those flames less than three feet from him, Sam went cold right down to the bone. “I used to.”

  She nodded. “I saw some of your paintings online. They were beautiful.”

  He took a long drink of wine, hoping to ease the hard knot lodged in his throat. It didn’t help. She’d looked him up online. Seen his paintings. Had she seen the rest, as well? Newspaper articles on the accident? Pictures of his dead wife and son? Pictures of him at their funeral, desperate, grieving, throwing a punch at a photographer? God he hated that private pain was treated as public entertainment.

  “That was a long time ago,” he spoke and silently congratulated himself on squeezing the words from a dry, tight throat.

  “Almost six years.”

  He snapped a hard look at her. “Yeah. I know. What is it you’re looking for here? Digging for information? Pointless. The world already knows the whole story.”

  “Talking,” she told him. “Not digging.”

  “Well,” he said, pushing to his feet, “I’m done talking.”

  “Big surprise,” Joy said, shaking her head slowly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Damn it, had he really just been thinking that spending time with her was a good thing? He looked down into those summer-blue eyes and saw irritation sparking there. Well, what the hell did she have to be mad about? It wasn’t her life being picked over.

  “It means, I knew you wouldn’t want to talk about any of this.”

  “Yet, you brought it up anyway.” Hell, Kaye knew the whole story about Sam’s life and the tragedy he’d survived, but at least she never threw it at him. “What the hell? Did some reporter call you asking for a behind-the-scenes exclusive? Haven’t they done enough articles on me yet? Or maybe you want to write a tell-all book, is that it?”

  “Wow.” That irritation in her eyes sparked from mild to barely suppressed fury in an instant. “You really think I would do that? To you? I would never sell out a friend.”

  “Oh,” he snapped, refusing to be moved by the statement, “we’re friends now?”

  “We could be, if you would stop looking at everyone around you like a potential enemy.”

  “I told you I didn’t come here for friends,” he reminded her. Damn it, the fire was heating the air. That had to be why breathing was so hard. Why his chest felt tight.

  “You’ve made that clear.” Joy took a breath that he couldn’t seem to manage, and he watched as the fury in her eyes softened to a glimmer. “Look, I only said something because it seemed ridiculous to pretend I didn’t know who you were.”

  He rubbed the heel of his hand at the center of his chest, trying to ease the ball of ice lodged there. “Fine. Don’t pretend. Just ignore it.”

  “What good will that do?” She set her wine down on the table and stood up to face him. “I’m sorry but—”

  “Don’t. God, don’t say you’re sorry. I’ve had more than enough of that, thanks. I don’t want your sympathy.” He pushed one hand through his hair and felt the heat of the fire on his back.

  This place had been his refuge. He’d buried his past back east and come here to get away from not only the press, but also the constant barrage of memories assaulting him at every familiar scene. He’d left his family because their pity had been thick enough to choke him. He’d left himself behind when he
came to the mountains. The man he’d once been. The man who’d been so wrapped up in creating beauty that he hadn’t noticed the beauty in his own life until it had been snatched away.

  “Well, you’ve got it anyway,” Joy told him and reached out to lay one hand on his forearm.

  Her touch fired everything in him, heat erupting with a rush that jolted his body to life in a way he hadn’t experienced in too many long, empty years. And he resented the hell out of it.

  He pulled away from her, and his voice dripped ice as he said, “Whatever it is you’re after, you should know I don’t want another woman in my life. Another child. Another loss.”

  Her gaze never left his, and those big blue pools of sympathy and irritation threatened to drown him.

  “Everybody loses, Sam,” she said quietly. “Houses, jobs, people they love. You can’t insulate yourself from that. Protect yourself from pain. It’s how you respond to the losses you experience that defines who you are.”

  He sneered at her. She had no idea. “And you don’t like how I responded? Is that it? Well, get in line.”

  “Loss doesn’t go away just because you’re hiding from it.”

  Darkness beyond the windows seemed to creep closer, as if it were finding a way to slip right inside him. This room with its bright wood and soft lights and fire-lit shadows felt as if it were the last stand against the dark, and the light was losing.

  Sam took a deep breath, looked down at her and said tightly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her head tipped to one side and blond curls fell against her neck. “You think you’re the only one with pain?”

  Of course not. But his own was too deep, too ingrained to allow him to give a flying damn what someone else might be suffering. “Just drop it. I’m done with this.”