Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(100)

Sometimes he thought he might try to track her down, bring her out of his thoughts and into his life. But the thing that had stopped him was a fear that his darkness would diminish her brilliance. So he left her where she was, hovering in his mind as he gained a sense of mastery over not only wood and nails, anchors and the grumpy electric drill, but also his emotions. The anger subsided to a dull murmur, like the ocean on a calm night.

He could go on like this for a long time, tackling one project after another, fighting entropy with his own sweat and effort. It was solitary work, but it was good work, and it made him forget how much he missed them. The people. His staff, the board members he’d scrapped with so many times, the children in the videos and on his trips around the country, the ones who thanked him for bringing breakfast to their schools and the ones who blithely informed him that they’d been happier with peanut butter crackers and soda and could take or leave his stupid nutritious lunches.

He’d never wanted gratitude. He wanted them fed.

None of those people—not his staff, not the board members, not the children—could look him in the eye. You had no idea how much you took people’s faith for granted until it was removed. Someday, perhaps, it would be restored, but in the meantime?

There was comfort in brick and hardwood, in plaster and tile, in its blank regard. You couldn’t betray it, and it couldn’t betray you.

This weekend, as he had told Nora, he was going to retile the kitchen, and his first step would be to confront the heavy orange-yellow hardback edition of Better Homes and Gardens New Complete Guide to Home Repair & Improvement, which he’d left on the kitchen counter yesterday afternoon.

The paper-towel holder was still sitting where he’d set it last night after the sound of Nora yelling “Now!” over and over had made him spurt all over his fist and the kitchen floor. There was doubtless a specific biblical prohibition against coming on the kitchen floor, or maybe it was okay as long as you sacrificed something afterward and buried the paper towel in the backyard according to rules laid out in Leviticus.

The whole thing had happened so quickly, from the moment the unknown number had first popped up on his screen a week ago and he’d thought, Boston. What are the odds?, to the moment he’d finally laid the phone down late last night. The emotions had come like a chain of cigarettes smoked: Unexpected relief when he’d heard her voice on the other end of the phone the first time. Oh, shit, when he remembered why he’d thought it would be a bad idea for them to follow up on their brief New Year’s Eve contact. Pressure in his chest every time they talked, all the words he’d wanted to say to her, and fear, all the things he hadn’t wanted to talk about. A thrill when their conversation last night had turned sexual, and a buildup of pleasure so fast and hard he couldn’t believe it had happened without the visual or tactile reality of her. Release and peace, their murmured, half-whispered conversation about nothing and everything, a susurrus of Nora until he’d fallen asleep with the phone in his hand. And the sense of peace still with him this morning, even though he should worry that he’d let things get so out of hand, that he’d let her in so far and built her expectations up so high.

Where did things go from here?

He’d have to tell her the truth the next time they talked. I’m the prime suspect in an embezzlement investigation, and with the way things appear to be going right now, I’m going to be charged before Christmas.

Oh, well, then, by all means, let’s take this thing to the next level!

No, that was not the response he imagined from her. More like that same look of suspicion Deena had worn on her face. And he wasn’t sure he could bear to see it on Nora’s.

You won’t have to see her face if you tell her on the phone.

Coward.

He consulted the index and turned to page 42, where he was instructed about how to choose and buy ceramic tile. Graph paper. Right. He had some somewhere—

The doorbell rang.

What are the odds?

The words filled his mind before he had a chance to imagine something more likely. Cub Scouts selling popcorn, Girl Scouts selling cookies, student athletes selling gift cards. Environmentalists, politicians, Mormons.

Nora.

He hadn’t showered or looked in the mirror this morning. He’d pulled on another pair of jeans and a different long-sleeved T and come downstairs, probably with his hair in disarray, to confront the book as early as possible so he could get to Home Depot or Ace Hardware and get this show on the road.

No time for vanity now. Besides, the Cub Scouts didn’t care.

He pulled open the heavy front door—restoring its frame was on his list of to-do items, too—and found her there, messenger bag slung across her shoulder. Pixie hair, freckles, pale-blue eyes full of uncertainty, teeth worrying her lower lip.

He stood for a moment, staring, because even though he should have been surprised, he’d known it would be her.

She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. She wore jeans and a pretty top, a deep blue that made her eyes even bluer, with a soft neckline that draped like a scarf, exposing just enough of the curve of her breasts to make his mouth water.

“Did you fly here?”

She nodded. “Owen gave me the address.”

“Wow.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m …”

“Speechless?”