Her Mistletoe Magic. Kristine Rolofson

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      “I hope you’re hungry. And feeling domestic. My family will probably put you to work stirring or mincing.” His eyebrows rose at the shopping bags she handed him, but he didn’t comment.

      “I can stir,” she assured him. “I can mince,” she fibbed. She hoped she could avoid cutting her fingers or dropping something on the floor. “Don’t they make you do that, being the fancy chef and all?”

      “You forget I come from a long line of chefs, fancy and otherwise.”

      Nico drove along the lake, passing his house and then continuing along the road for another half a mile. “When I was growing up we lived in town, near the restaurant, but my folks bought this place about fifteen years ago. They decided they wanted to be closer to the water.”

      “This place” turned out to be a low-slung modern ranch-style house at the end of a long driveway. Nestled into the hillside, it had breathtaking views of the water and a massive deck.

      “They downsized,” Nico explained. “Mom wanted a newer home on one floor, so they bought this and completely redid it.” He parked close to the door, in front of a detached three-car garage. “Stay put and I’ll help you in.”

      The snow was coming down heavier now and it coated the circular driveway. Someone had shoveled a path to the house and cleared the three stone steps that fronted a large entry door. Nico helped her from the car. Leaning on him seemed natural now.

      She had grown used to touching him, to leaning on him. They’d become friends, she realized. Friends who kissed.

      The door opened before they reached the steps, revealing a short, handsome man with a head of curly gray hair. Dressed in a down vest, khaki pants and thick snow boots, he beamed at them and hurried down the steps to help.

      Nico’s father, obviously.

      “Hello, hello, Merry Christmas. You must be Nico’s friend. How is that ankle doing? Oh, watch out now. It’s slick. One of the boys shoveled a while ago, but the snow is coming down hard, isn’t it?”

      “It is,” she agreed. She liked the man immediately and some of her nervousness dissipated. She gripped her crutch and prayed she wouldn’t fall over and embarrass herself in front of him.

      “Dad, I’d like you to meet Grace,” Nico said once they were inside and stomping the snow off their feet on the rubber mat inside the door. “Grace Clarke, from Mirror Lake Lodge.”

      “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about you, Gracie. The wedding planner! I think I’ve seen you at the lodge, though we’ve never officially met. I’m so glad you came. Here, let me help you.”

      Nico touched Grace’s shoulder. “I’ll go back for the bags. You’ve guessed that this happy man is my father.”

      “It’s nice to meet—”

      He enveloped her in a big hug. “We’re glad you’re here at last. Now, let’s get that coat off and let you sit down. Oh, you have one of Cathy’s scarves! You should always wear blue.”

      Cathy’s scarf? Did he mean Nico’s sister had made it? She didn’t have a chance to ask.

      “I’ll be right back,” Nico said, fleeing the foyer as his mother rounded the corner.

      Mrs. Vitelli was tall and lean, much like her son, and at least eight inches taller than her husband. She wore black pencil-thin slacks and a gold turtleneck sweater. Her hair was a rich dark brown highlighted with auburn streaks. It was cut in a classic bob that framed a beautiful face with high cheekbones and lovely gray eyes. Grace guessed she was in her early sixties. She looked nervous, but her smile was genuine.

      “You must be Grace. I’m Terry, Nico’s mother,” she said, holding out her hand. Noticing that Grace was trying to get her coat off while negotiating the crutch, she stopped. “What can I do?”

      “We’ve got it, honey,” her husband assured her. “Nico went out to unload the car.”

      “My boot,” Grace stammered. “I don’t want to track snow—”

      “Never mind that,” Terry Vitelli said. “Come straight through and sit down. It’s only snow.”

      Grace bit her tongue before she could say, “Yes, ma’am.”

      The foyer opened up into a large room that faced the lake. Floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors revealed the snowstorm whirling beyond them, while inside, a large chestnut sofa faced a gas fireplace whose flickering flames warmed the room. A huge Christmas tree sat in one corner, presents spilling out from underneath into the room. No one else was there.

      “We’re early,” Grace said, letting Nico’s mother lead her to a leather recliner placed strategically across from a large television. “I hope that’s okay. I have a wedding tonight—”

      “Everyone’s in the kitchen,” Mr. Vitelli announced. “Terry won’t let them out until we meet you.”

      Nico’s mother flushed. “I didn’t want you to be overwhelmed when you first walked in. We’re a big family. Besides, they’re baking cookies and I don’t want them to burn.”

      Mr. Vitelli winked. “We’re a noisy bunch. Couldn’t have Nico’s girl running back to the car, you know.”

      “I’m not—” She started to explain that she wasn’t Nico’s girlfriend, but stopped. Maybe, just for this afternoon, she’d pretend to be exactly that. “I’m not easily scared,” she said, bending over to remove her suede boot. She’d leave the support boot on, with one of Nico’s wool hiking socks covering her toes.

      “Of course you’re not,” Terry said. “I don’t know how my husband comes up with these things.”

      “Nona!” A little girl tiptoed into the room. She eyed Grace before turning to her grandmother. “Mommy said I can have two cookies.”

      “Grace, this is Greta, my middle daughter’s older child. Greta, say hello to Grace.”

      “Hi.” She was tiny and round, with red curls and fair skin.

      “Hi, Greta.”

      Nico joined them, scooping the little girl into his arms and tipping her upside down, releasing delighted squeals. Another little one ran into the room. She looked about two, with the same red curls and heart-shaped face.

      “Me, too!” She held up her arms to her uncle. “Me, too!”

      He gave the other little girl a turn hanging by his arm and she giggled wildly.

      “This is the youngest. Delia. Their father is Irish.” He winked at Grace. “Can you tell?”

      A very pregnant young woman waddled into the living room. “She’s only the youngest for two more weeks, Nico.” She turned to Grace. “Hi. I’m Beth. The pregnant sister.”

      Terry laughed. “I think Grace figured that out for herself.”

      “Hi. I’m Grace Clarke. I work with your—”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ