Together by Christmas. C.J. Carmichael

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СКАЧАТЬ for the breakup, then Chad was probably feeling pretty lonesome about now.

      Unless there really was another woman…?

      No, no, no. That couldn’t be it….

      A mailbox caught her eye. She was here. Thoughts of Chad vanished as Miranda contemplated the barely standing box at the side of the road—left over from the days when mail had been delivered rather than picked up at a post office box in town. Stenciled in fading black paint was the name “Addison.” She glanced down the long lane. The road curved gently to the right, then disappeared in a second curve to the left. A stand of poplars, naked without their leaves, huddled on either side of the dirt road. They’d provided enough cover, however, to preserve a thin dusting of snow.

      Later in the season this private access would be unpassable unless Warren had it plowed. Oh, well, she could always leave her car on the main road.

      Optimistic thoughts for someone who hasn’t even talked Warren into the project yet, she reminded herself. She’d decided early on her chances of success were highest with a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, she hadn’t developed her strategy beyond that. Now she felt edgy and nervous. She’d put up such a brave front for others. And she’d deposited Catherine’s check. No way could she fail now that she was here.

      She nosed her vehicle along the lane. Her initial glimpse of the Addison farmhouse wasn’t reassuring. The old two-story clapboard desperately needed paint. The utilitarian structure sat unconnected to the surrounding land. No cozy porch or veranda. No flower gardens or shrub borders.

      A truck parked by the front door and wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney indicated Warren was home. He must have heard her drive up, but so far he hadn’t made an appearance.

      Realizing she was working herself into a genuine case of nerves, Miranda turned off the ignition and jumped out of her car. She couldn’t stand around or she’d lose her courage entirely. Avoiding the front door, which was boarded shut, she went round to the back, where she opened the screen to knock on the wooden door.

      Just at the moment her knuckles were about to connect with the wood, the door gave way and she found herself staring at a plaid shirt. Lifting her gaze, she saw a face she never would have recognized—masculine, compelling, mature. No trace of the yearbook boy remained.

      Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.

      “Warren?”

      WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.

      “Miranda James.”

      God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.

      “None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”

      Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”

      But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.

      “Is that a wood-burning stove?”

      “Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”

      He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.

      “Oh, and an espresso machine!”

      “A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”

      “Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”

      “A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”

      He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…

      But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.

      “I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”

      “Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”

      “Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”

      “What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”

      “I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”

      “Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”

      He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.

      “You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”

      Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.

      “Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.

      “No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.

      “I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.

      “Well, you’ve done a good job.”

      “So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.

      No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.

      And СКАЧАТЬ