Together by Christmas. C.J. Carmichael

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      “A little.” He grinned. “Star Trek.”

      “‘Aye, aye, Captain.’” She pulled off a mitten—cold be damned—and turned on her camera. Good, she managed to catch the dancing amusement in his eyes before he looked away.

      “Any other early influences? Besides Star Trek?” She held her focus on him, relying on his arm to prevent her from stumbling as they continued to walk.

      “Tolkien, of course. And the Russians. I especially loved Tolstoy and later, Solzhenitsyn.”

      “You always had your nose in a book at school.”

      “I’m surprised you noticed.”

      Was that a dig? She could see no rancor in his expression and assumed he felt none. “Well, we did share the same classroom from grades one through twelve. I do wish now, though, that I’d been more observant.”

      “Ah. More fodder for your biography?”

      Partly, yes. But also she wondered… “I think we might have been friends. You’re so easy to talk to. I didn’t expect that at the outset of this project.”

      He sighed, and she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. Eager to get the conversation flowing again, she asked another question. “Would you say your childhood was happy?”

      He glanced into the camera as if it were an annoying insect. “This is beginning to feel like a therapy session. Were you happy as a kid?”

      “Yeah. Generally speaking. But the video isn’t about me.”

      “I don’t care. I can’t handle all these one-sided confessions. Let’s make a deal.” He stopped and took the camera out of her hand. After a moment, he figured out how to switch it off. Then he passed it back to her.

      “What deal?”

      “Any question you ask me, I get to turn around on you. If I want.”

      “That’s very sneaky, Warren Addison.”

      “Did you know all the boys in our class had a crush on you?”

      Not true. Chad hadn’t. And probably not Warren, either.

      “You’re exaggerating.”

      “Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But pretty damn close.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      “You’re embarrassed.” He seemed amused by the discovery.

      “We aren’t meant to be discussing my love life,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you tell me something about yours?”

      “What did you want to ask?”

      “Is there a woman in your life right now?”

      “Right now?” He stared into the distance, then glanced back at her. “No.”

      “Well, what about the women in your past, then?”

      “What about them?”

      He wasn’t making this easy. “Warren, this is a subject we’ll have to cover. Eventually. I’d like to meet some of them, if I could. I’d like to meet with all the people who’ve been important to you. Have you ever been married?”

      “No. Haven’t even lived with anyone. I’m a private guy, Miranda.”

      But there had been women. And some of them had mattered. She knew these things with total certainty, although she couldn’t say how.

      “Was there ever anyone special? Someone you never managed to forget…?”

      Knowing Warren had been a loner, knowing how private he was, she didn’t really expect him to answer.

      He surprised her, though, when he said slowly, “There was this girl….”

      After giving him a few seconds to finish his sentence, she was forced to prod. “What was her name, Warren? Was she in our class?”

      With the force of a magnetic attraction, her gaze was drawn to the gray of his eyes.

      “Just a girl,” he said. “I don’t think you ever really knew her.”

      WARREN REALIZED his answer was evasive. It was also true. At thirty-two Miranda was as oblivious to her extraordinary qualities as she’d been at eighteen. She allowed her obvious natural beauty to define her, even as she tried to discount its value—to herself and to others.

      Miranda’s kindness, her sense of fun, her intelligence. Those were the qualities that drew her friends. That drew him.

      But they didn’t totally explain her appeal to the opposite sex. Since their meeting the other day, he’d given this subject some thought. And he realized that what made Miranda so utterly irresistible was that she just didn’t care about the impression she was making. That kind of laid-back attitude was bound to trigger any man’s competitive instincts. It had triggered his.

      Way back when.

      And now.

      “What about you, Miranda? Are you seeing anyone right now? Have you ever been married?”

      “No and no.” She slipped her camera back inside its case. “Why do you refuse to do promotion for your book?”

      He sighed. He’d have to add tenacious to the list of qualities this woman possessed. Summoning patience, he tried to be brief. “Book signings are difficult. People meet you…they think they know you because they’ve read your book. But the fact remains that they’re strangers.”

      “Well, what about interviews?”

      “I dislike the narcissism. Why should anyone be that interested in me? Also, most journalists are pretty predictable. Interviews get dull after a while.”

      “Oh. So today has been—”

      “No. Today was different.” He stopped in front of the gate. They’d circled back to where they’d begun.

      “The tip of your nose is turning white. How about we go back to the house and I’ll make you an espresso?”

      CHAPTER SIX

      SIPPING ESPRESSO in a warm farm kitchen was just the thing on a cold winter afternoon, Miranda decided. Warren had made her cup first, then frothed his own cappuccino. Now he sat in one of the vinyl-covered chairs and stretched out his legs until his feet almost touched the heat-spewing woodstove.

      He wore thick wool socks, the kind you’d team with a sturdy pair of leather work boots. Miranda found herself remembering how his feet had looked bare, those long, slender toes with squarely cut nails. Her imagination traveled upward, picturing long, toned legs, narrow hips, a tight butt—

      Better stop there.

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