The CEO's Christmas Proposition / His Expectant Ex. Catherine Mann

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      “If we have time.”

      It was almost four now. They would have to hustle to hit the jam-packed market, select gifts for an assortment of kids, check on Logan’s luggage and get him moved into his suite in time to shower and change. Maybe, she thought hopefully, his executive assistant had decided to take the morning off and hadn’t responded to Devon’s e-mail requesting the names, ages and gift preferences of Logan’s nieces and nephews.

      No such luck. The response was waiting when she clicked on her iPhone. She scrolled through the list once and was going over it a second time when their limo slowed for the crowded streets of the Old City. Devon caught a glimpse of the market through a narrow alleyway. They could sit in the car while it crawled another quarter mile to the square or cut through the alley and meet the limo on the other side.

      “Hier ist gut,” she told the driver.

      He pulled over to the curb and his passengers climbed out. The sleet had let up a little, thank goodness, but the air was still cold enough to make her teeth ache.

      “I’ll tell the driver to wait for us by the bridge, Mr…Er…Cal.”

      He eyed her coat and the hot pink shawl she draped over her head and wrapped around the lower half of her face. “You sure you’ll be warm enough? We can skip the market and go straight back to the hotel.”

      Devon was tempted to take the out he offered. Very tempted. All she had to do was fake one little shiver. But they were out of the limo now, and the market was only a short walk away.

      “I’m good if you are.”

      Nodding, he hiked up the collar of his overcoat and pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. When they started down the cobblestone alley, he took her elbow with same courtesy he had at the airport.

      Devon wasn’t sure how such a simple gesture could be so casually polite and so damned discon-certing at the same time. She made a conscious effort not to lean into his warmth as their heels echoed on the ancient stones.

      The narrow walk wound around the back of the great cathedral. Thankfully, the cathedral walls blocked most of the wind. The gusts that did whistle through the alley, however, carried tantalizing scents. Devon’s nose twitched at the aroma of hot chocolate, apple cider spiced with cinnamon and cloves, freshly baked gingerbread and the sticky sweet cake Dresden was so famous for.

      “You’ll have to try the stollen,” she told her client. “It’s a German specialty that’s supposed to have originated right here in Dresden.”

      Sure enough, when they exited the alley and joined the throng in the main square, the first booth they encountered was selling slices of the cake still warm and steaming from the oven.

      “When in Rome…”

      Taking her at her word, Logan steered her toward the line at the booth.

      Not Logan. Cal. Still struggling to make the mental adjustment, Devon dredged her memory bank for details of the treat so popular throughout Germany and Austria.

      “The Catholic Church used to forbid the consumption of butter as part of the fasting in preparation for Christmas. Sometime in the sixteenth century, the Elector of Saxony got permission from the Pope for his baker’s guild to use butter and milk when baking their Christmas bread. Dresden’s stollen became highly prized after that, and every year the baker’s guild would march through the streets to present the first, huge loaf to the prince in gratitude.”

      She could imagine the color and pageantry of that medieval processional, with trumpets sounding and the bakers in all their finery tromping through the snow with their thirty-six pound loaves. The tradition still continued, she knew, only now it was a megaparade complete with floats, marching bands, a stollen queen and a five-ton loaf!

      “Here you go.”

      Logan—Cal—passed her a paper-wrapped slice and a foam cup of something hot and steamy. He retrieved the same for himself before they lucked out and found space at one of the stand-up tables dotting the square.

      Devon’s first bite more than made up for the cold nipping at her cheeks and nose. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she savored the rich blend of nuts, raisins candied fruits flavored with spices and brandy and, of course, tablespoons of butter.

      The hot chocolate was also spiked, she discovered after the first sip. As a result, she was feeling warm both inside and out when they dumped their trash in a handy container.

      “Ready to do some serious stall hopping?” she asked.

      “Hang on. You’ve got powdered sugar on your lip.”

      He moved closer, and for a startled moment Devon thought he was going to repeat his performance at the airport and kiss away the sugar. Her heart speeded up, and she didn’t know whether she was more relieved or disappointed when he tugged off a glove and brushed his thumb along her lip.

      Then she looked up and caught the lazy half smile in his eyes. For the most absurd moment, the cold and the crowd seemed to fade away. She held her breath as his thumb made another pass. Warm. Slow. Caressing.

      “There.” He dropped his arm. “All clear.”

      With the brandy heating her stomach and his touch searing her skin, the best Devon could manage was a gruff “Thanks.”

      Sweating a little under her heavy wool coat, she edged her way into the crowd that snaked through lanes of brightly decorated stalls. Thanks to her client’s efficient assistant, picking out gifts took little effort.

      Four-year-old Andrew got a hand-carved train on wooden tracks. Seven-year old Jason scored a two-foot-tall nutcracker in a smart red coat. For the twins, Julia and Bethany, Devon recommended denim skirts lavishly trimmed with filigree lace from Plauen. The more studious Janet received a glass globe of the world handblown and painted by a local artisan, while baby Nick got mittens and a stocking cap in a downy yarn that sparkled like spun gold.

      Dusk was falling and the strings of lights illuminating the market had popped on by the time Cal and Devon rounded out the purchases with a doll in a furtrimmed red dress, a wooden puppet and a chess set featuring incredibly detailed Prussian soldiers. Their arms full, they had started for the bridge and the waiting limo when a ripple of eager anticipation raced through the crowd. They turned just in time see the giant fir next to the wooden Christmas pyramid light up.

      A chorus of collective ooooohs filled the square. It was followed by the sound of young voices raised in a joyous rendition of “O Tannenbaum.”

      Second time today, Devon thought. Strangely, though, the song didn’t produce quite the same level of cynicism as when she’d heard it blasting through the loudspeakers at the airport.

      Maybe because these voices were so young and angelic, or because she still felt the glow from the spiked hot chocolate. Certainly not because her lip still tingled from Cal Logan’s touch.

      “There’s the car.”

      The driver had pulled into a cul-de-sac beside the bridge spanning the Elbe and was sitting with the engine idling. He jumped out to relieve them of their packages, but the magical view drew his passengers to the wall fronting the river’s bank. Completely enchanted, Devon leaned both hands on the wall.

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