A Cinderella Story: Maid Under the Mistletoe / My Fair Billionaire / Second Chance with the CEO. Maureen Child

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ now, after less than a week, he could feel those layers of insulation peeling away and he wasn’t sure how to stop it or even if he wanted to. The shredding of his cloak of invisibility was painful and still he couldn’t stop it.

      Dinner with Joy and Holly had tripped him up, too, and he had a feeling she’d known it would. If he’d been smart, he would have walked out of the room as soon as he’d seen them at the table. But one look into Joy’s and Holly’s eyes had ended that idea before it could begin. So instead of having his solitary meal, he’d been part of a unit—and for a few minutes, he’d enjoyed it. Listening to Holly’s excited chatter, sharing knowing looks with Joy. Then, of course, he remembered that Joy and Holly weren’t his. And that was what he had to keep in mind.

      Taking another drink of the icy wine, he shifted his gaze to the fire. Safer to look into the flames than to stare at the deep blue of her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, finally responding to her last statement, “I don’t really talk to people anymore.”

      “No kidding.” She threw his earlier words back at him, and Sam nodded at the jab.

      “Kaye tends to steer clear of me most of the time.”

      “Kaye doesn’t like talking to people, either,” Joy said, laughing. “You two are a match made in heaven.”

      “There’s a thought,” he muttered.

      She laughed again, and the sound of it filled every empty corner of the room. It was both balm and torture to hear it, to know he wanted to hear it. How was it possible that she’d made such an impact on him in such a short time? He hadn’t even noticed her worming her way past his defenses until it was impossible to block her.

      “So,” she asked suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts, “any idea where I can find a puppy?”

      “No,” he said shortly, then decided there was no reason to bark at her because he was having trouble dealing with her. He looked at her. “I don’t know people around here.”

      “See, you should,” she said, tipping her head to one side to look at him. “You’ve lived here five years, Sam.”

      “I didn’t move here for friends.” He came to the mountains to find the peace that still eluded him.

      “Doesn’t mean you can’t make some.” Sighing, she turned her head to the flames. “If you did know people, you could help me on the puppy situation.” Shaking her head, she added, “I’ve got her princess dolls and a fairy princess dress and the other small things she asked for. The puppy worries me.”

      He didn’t want to think about children’s Christmas dreams. Sam remembered another child dictating letters to Santa and waking to the splendor of Christmas morning. And through the pain he also recalled how he and his wife had worked to make those dreams come true for their little boy. So, though he hated it, he said, “You could get her a stuffed puppy with a note that Santa will bring her the real thing as soon as the puppy’s ready for a new home.”

      She tipped her head to one side and studied him, a wide smile on her face. God, when she smiled, her eyes shone and something inside him fisted into knots.

      “A note from Santa himself? That’s a good idea. I think Holly would love that he’s going to make a special trip just for her.” Clearly getting into it, she continued, “I could make up a certificate or something. You know—” she deepened her voice for dramatic effect “—this is to certify that Holly Curran will be receiving a puppy from Santa as soon as the puppy is ready for a home.” Wrinkling her brow, she added thoughtfully, “Maybe I could draw a Christmas border on the paper and we could frame it for her—you know, with Santa’s signature—and hang it in her bedroom. It could become an heirloom, something she passes down to her kids.”

      He shrugged, as if it meant nothing, but in his head, he could see Holly’s excitement at a special visit from Santa after Christmas. But once December was done, he wouldn’t be seeing Joy or Holly again, so he wouldn’t know how the Santa promise went, would he? Frowning to himself, he tried to ignore the ripple of regret that swept through him.

      “Okay, I am not responsible for your latest frown.”

      “What?” He turned his head to look at her again.

      She laughed shortly. “Nothing. So, what’d you work on today?”

      “Seriously?” Usually she just launched into a monologue.

      “Well, you’re actually speaking tonight,” she said with a shrug, “so I thought I’d ask a question that wasn’t rhetorical.”

      “Right.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’m starting a new project.”

      “Another table?”

      “No.”

      “Talking,” she acknowledged, “but still far from chatty.”

      “Men are not chatty.”

      “Some men you can’t shut up,” she argued. “If it’s not a table you’re working on, what is it?”

      “Haven’t decided yet.”

      “You know, in theory, a job like that sounds wonderful.” She took a sip of wine. “But I do better with a schedule all laid out in front of me. I like knowing that website updates are due on Monday and newsletters have to go out on Tuesday, like that.”

      “I don’t like schedules.”

      She watched him carefully, and his internal radar went on alert. When a woman got that particular look in her eye—curiosity—it never ended well for a man.

      “Well,” she said softly, “if you haven’t decided on a project yet, you could give me some help with the Santa certificate.”

      “What do you mean?” He heard the wariness in his own voice.

      “I mean, you could draw Christmassy things around the borders, make it look beautiful.” She paused and when she spoke again, the words came so softly they were almost lost in the hiss and snap of the fire in front of them. “You used to paint.”

      And in spite of those flames less than three feet from him, Sam went cold right down to the bone. “I used to.”

      She nodded. “I saw some of your paintings online. They were beautiful.”

      He took a long drink of wine, hoping to ease the hard knot lodged in his throat. It didn’t help. She’d looked him up online. Seen his paintings. Had she seen the rest, as well? Newspaper articles on the accident? Pictures of his dead wife and son? Pictures of him at their funeral, desperate, grieving, throwing a punch at a photographer? God he hated that private pain was treated as public entertainment.

      “That was a long time ago,” he spoke and silently congratulated himself on squeezing the words from a dry, tight throat.

      “Almost six years.”

      He snapped a hard look at her. “Yeah. I know. What is it you’re looking for here? Digging for information? Pointless. The world already knows the whole story.”

      “Talking,” she told him. “Not digging.”

      “Well,” СКАЧАТЬ