A Husband In Her Stocking. Christine Pacheco
battered halo.
It seemed ridiculously small in his big hands, yet he securely cradled the miniature in his palm. Safe. That’s how Lexie looked. And how Meghan felt, despite the myriad reasons she should feel anything but.
“Used to?” she asked softly.
“She died a few years ago.”
Meghan heard the undisguised layer of pain in his tone. “I’m sorry.”
“I am, too. She was someone very special.” He slid the angel onto the tabletop, his fingertip resting briefly on the dried flowers Lexie clutched. “Do you remember where you bought it? I’d love to get one to remember her.”
“I made it. She’s modeled after my grandmother, Lexie.”
“Impressive.”
His note of approval brought a flush of pleasure to her face.
He leaned back in his chair. Kyle either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his very real impact on her.
“Is it a hobby or a job?” he asked.
“I sell them to local stores.”
“You make them here?”
“I have a studio upstairs.”
He nodded. “I’d like to see it.”
Her mind momentarily blanked. No one, ever, had seen her studio. It was her sanctuary, her escape. She didn’t allow trespassers. “Sure,” she lied. Then she sought refuge behind the knowledge he wouldn’t be here long enough to ask again.
“Do you have any more for sale? Angels, that is.”
“Plenty.” She cringed, thinking of the extra inventory adorning the shelves in her studio. “I finished up a batch when you got here. I was supposed to deliver them to town this evening.”
“Maybe I could take some off your hands.”
Polite. The man was polite. Manners of a saint. The sex appeal of a sinner.
“Is business good year-round, or does it peak at Christmas?”
There was that word again, Christmas. She distrusted the word and his motives as much as if he’d just waved a sprig of mistletoe over her head.
Mistletoe.
Just the thought of standing with him, beneath mistletoe made her imagine the feel of his lips on hers.
She banished the very real, very unsettling image—or tried to.
“Meghan?”
“Christmas is the best, businesswise, but I’m working toward building distribution throughout the state. I hope that will make things less seasonal.”
“Why do you dislike it so much?”
She blinked. “Dislike what?”
“Christmas.” He laid the word between them. He met her gaze, captured it, compelled her to continue looking at him. “You wince every time I mention it.”
“I don’t,” she protested, cursing his powers of observation. No other person had so skillfully cut through her outer layer of defense and gone for the heart. She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, trying to ward off the sudden chill.
“You do.”
Although Kyle appeared outwardly relaxed, she instinctively recognized the deception. His brows were drawn together in intense scrutiny, and his gaze never wavered from being fixed on her.
“You just did it again,” he stated flatly. “Flinched.”
She wondered what he did for a living, but knew whatever it was, he did it well. Single-minded determination was evident in his falsely relaxed posture, tone and questions. He might allow a brief respite, but he always returned to his point.
Meghan shuddered as she toyed with the image of what it might be like to be pursued by him with that awesome, single-minded determination.
He didn’t speak, apparently satisfied to wait on her response.
Kyle took a drink, then returned the mug to the table soundlessly—at least she assumed it to be soundlessly, since her thumping heart filled her ears. He wouldn’t waver. And unless she wanted him to return to the conversation over and over, she had to tell him, sharing the painful memories she’d tried to bury. Maybe if she told him, he’d leave her alone. “I don’t dislike Christmas itself.”
“Go on.”
“It’s the associations with Christmas that I can do without.”
He fingered Lexie’s fragile halo, which was made from dried flowers. Wind lashed the window with a howl, as if violently disagreeing with Meghan’s assessment of the holiday. She shuddered. Yet in the anonymity of the barely luminated night, she found courage. Even though her voice hardly cracked a decibel above a whisper, she confessed, “I’ve never had a real Christmas.”
Kyle’s brows arched. “Never had...?”
“My mother and father are...” She battled disloyalty, hating to say anything bad about anyone—particularly her parents. She settled for a half truth. “Absorbed in their own lives.”
Meghan swept the thick layers of hair back from her face, holding her hand on top of her head while memories dragged to the surface on stubborn heels. “I had nannies who resented not having time off to spend with their own families.”
“Just what kind of parents do you have?”
“Rich ones.”
She saw him take in the kitchen, with its faded vinyl, outdated appliances and seen-better-days curtains. Despite her best intentions, she gave a shallow smile. “I don’t accept their money. They send a check every year.” She waited a couple of beats, then added, “At—”
“Christmas.” This time, Kyle winced.
She dropped her hand and raised her shoulder in a short shrug. “I send it to the childrens’ shelter.”
“They don’t spend the holiday with you?” he asked incredulously.
“Aspen’s quite a drive from here.”
“So they live in the state?”
She shook her head. “They have places in France and Florida. They just fly to Colorado for two weeks each year. Great skiing. Even better parties.”
“And they don’t come to see you?”
“They did. Once.”
Kyle’s four-letter word was ferocious and forceful. She grimaced. “And Santa Claus?” he asked, leaning forward, adding to the intimacy, stealing rational thought.
“Didn’t have time to stop at my house.”
“Jeez, Meghan, what the hell kind of life is that for a kid?”
“At least it was a little better than the Christmases when I was left at boarding school.”
Kyle’s hands tightened into fists. “That’s not the way it is.” Each word was tight, leashed with control. “Not the way it should be.”
“Maybe not,” she said softly, the sharpness of his voice reverberating in the quiet. “But it’s the only way I’ve ever known. There was one night,” she said softly, “that my nanny found me asleep on the stairs, waiting for Santa Claus, for my parents to come home and tell me they loved me, waiting for some of the Christmas magic people talk about.”
In a painful whisper, she added, “It never happened.”
“I’m going to change that,” he vowed.
For the hesitant flash of a stolen moment in time, she believed him.
Reality rushed back in an unwelcome