The Holiday Visitor. Tara Quinn Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ if he doesn’t ask me out again.”

      “No, you won’t.” Marybeth gave the girl a hug. “You’ll call me and come over for the weekend and we’ll eat tacos and ice cream and watch movies that make us cry and talk bad about Randy and you’ll find someone else to like before you know it.”

      “You didn’t.”

      “I didn’t find a Randy, either.” Marybeth thanked fate for the little help finding a comeback on that one. “Not all women are meant to fall in love. If you are, then it’ll happen. And if not, no amount of wishing or pushing can make it happen. Wishing and pushing will only make you make mistakes. And bring unhappiness.”

      “I don’t get it,” Wendy said as Marybeth climbed into her SUV.

      “Get what?”

      “You. I mean, look at you. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, money. You’re skinny and gorgeous. Any guy would be a fool not to fall for you.”

      “But in order for it to work, I’d have to fall for him, too,” Marybeth said, wondering if it was her father’s death, leaving her all alone in the world, that was bringing out this sudden urge in the Mathers for her to find a mate. “I’m not opposed to falling in love, sweetie,” she told her friend. “I just haven’t. And I’m okay with that. Most days, I think I prefer it that way.”

      “I sure wouldn’t,” Wendy said with a chuckle. “Think about Christmas,” she called out as Marybeth drove off.

      She agreed that she would. But she didn’t think she was going to change her mind.

      HE’D STEPPED into a Christmas wonderland. He should have suspected when he’d noticed that the garden stakes interspersed throughout the flowers were of old world Santa and snowman design, and seen the lights hiding in the garland bordering the porch railing. Red bows dotted the garland and the pine smell teased his nostrils with memories of long ago Christmases with his parents at their cabin in Northern California.

      The outside of the Orange Blossom Inn was festive. Still, it did nothing to prepare Craig for the spectacular sight as he stepped inside. From the felt and sequined door hangings and stops, to the intricately stitched wall hangings, from the colorful stockings hanging from every door handle, to the various collections of figurines sitting on every available surface, Craig’s gaze moved around the foyer and reception area and beyond to the enormous, heavily decorated Christmas tree adorning the formal parlor to his right. Brightly lit, with the colored lights he preferred over the small white lights that had become so popular, the tree promised hours of sightseeing. It looked like every single ornament on the edifice was homemade.

      No porcelain or glass or anything else that appeared the least bit factory influenced. Oddly out of place, considering the rest of Christmas abundance around him, was the bare wood floor beneath and around the tree.

      Where were the gaily wrapped and decorated packages the tableau cried out for?

      An electric train, much like the collector’s one he and his father had worked on when he’d been a kid—complete with the lighted town buildings and trees and people—filled a table that took up an entire wall of the parlor. It chugged softly along, the only moving entity in the room.

      The place smelled like cookies and pine and with a long, deep breath, Craig knew he’d made the right decision. The song “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” came to mind and it took him a second or two to realize that it was playing softly.

      There was a voice singing it, too, but from a distance. Singing live. With a tone so pure, so solid it gave him chills. Whoever that woman was, she should be in L.A., or on the stage, making millions on recordings.

      “Oh! Sorry! I didn’t hear the bell.”

      Craig wasn’t sure which he noticed first, that the singing had stopped, or that the owner of that voice he was hearing was speaking another rendition of that angelic gift.

      “I’m looking for Marybeth Lawson,” he stated his business, trying, without success, to break gazes with the violeteyed blonde standing there holding a plate of delicious-looking cookies.

      The cook? Was his first thought.

      And his second—what a waste.

      “I’m Marybeth.”

      Two words. Innocuous. Everyday.

      They changed his life.

      Or they were going to.

      Craig couldn’t explain the impression. Nor could he argue with it. It simply was. With or without his cooperation or acceptance.

       Chapter Three

      CRAIG MCKELLIPS was much younger than the doddering, elderly gentleman who opted to spend Christmas alone guest she’d expected. And gorgeous. Tall, with dark golden, slightly long hair he was the epitome of every bronze god Marybeth had ever imagined. Skin, eyes, expression—everywhere she looked the man glowed.

      Not that she was looking, Marybeth assured herself a couple of hours after Craig had checked in. The man was her guest. One of the hundreds she’d hosted in the three years since she’d opened the Orange Blossom for business. He was back downstairs, seemingly completely satisfied with Juliet’s room, ready for the evening cocktail she advertised in her brochure and on the Internet.

      The only reason she was noticing him so intensely was because of her recent conversation with Wendy. She’d been thinking about the feelings the girl had described for Randy that afternoon.

      Trying to imagine how infatuation felt so that she knew how to advise the girl. How to help the teenager keep herself away from temptation and out of trouble.

      Craig McKellips stood in the doorway to the parlor, still looking godlike in spite of—or because of?—having freshened up, his eyes trained on the far side of the room and the lump lying in the archway leading to the kitchen and the private part of the house.

      “I’m assuming that’s yours?” he asked, staring, hands resting on either side of the open French doors.

      “Yeah.” She tried to smile reassuringly, as she did every evening that she introduced her family member to their guests, but couldn’t seem to pull it off. Neither could she walk up to him, shake his hand as he joined her. She was nervous.

      And there was absolutely no reason why she should be. She’d hosted many single men over the years.

      “His name’s Brutus.” She was supposed to be telling him that the oversize dog was friendly. A sweetheart. She meant to. But stood there feeling like an adolescent with a crush instead.

      Or, at least, reminding herself of how Cara had acted in eighth grade. How Wendy had sounded that afternoon.

      Nodding, Craig stood still, keeping his distance from Brutus, though to give him credit, he looked more respectful than leery.

      “Having him here is a good idea,” he said. “With your home open to the public, strangers coming and going, you’re wise to take precautions.”

      Very perceptive. Not that any of the guests ever knew that Marybeth stayed СКАЧАТЬ