One More for Christmas(68)

Mary stood up and cleared the cups. “If you don’t normally spend Christmas together, this trip must be extra special for you.”

“It is.” Extra special and extra stressful.

“Well, we’ll do what we can to make it memorable. Do you work, Gayle?”

Gayle thought about the award in her office—that wretched award—the book sales, her enviable list of clients. Her agent had called her several times in the past few weeks to let her know that her new book was outselling her last.

For once, she had no desire to talk about her work. “I run a boutique consulting business.” It was clear from Mary’s interested expression that she had no idea what that would involve but was too polite to say so.

“That sounds impressive.”

“Not really.” Normally she’d be asking questions and helping Mary examine and possibly redefine her life. But right now it seemed to her that Mary was far more confident about her choices than Gayle was.

There was no chance to say anything more because at that moment Ella walked into the room.

Gayle tensed but Mary gave a quick smile.

“You must be hungry after being out in the snow. I’ll fetch you a cooked breakfast.” She made a rapid, tactful exit. Gayle almost begged her to stay. She wasn’t sure she could handle more questions at the moment.

Ella hesitated. “Good breakfast?”

“Delicious.”

“I’m sorry if my questions made you feel uncomfortable, Mom.” She sat down in the empty chair next to Gayle. “You seemed upset and I wanted you to feel able to talk about it, but I understand that not everyone wants to do that. And given that I didn’t talk to you about Michael, it’s hypocritical of me to expect you to do the same about Dad. I’m sure there are many things that you want to keep private, and I’m going to stop asking you. But I want you to know that if you want to talk, then I’m here to listen.”

Gayle was totally wrong-footed.

How did Ella do that so easily? She’d apologized, unreservedly, for making Gayle feel uncomfortable. And perhaps her questions were understandable. Both her daughters deserved answers. But how, when you’d covered something up for such a long time, did you begin to tell the truth?



Samantha


Samantha sat in the suffocating intimacy of the car, gripping her phone.

She kept her gaze fixed forward, but avoiding awkward eye contact did nothing to dilute the tension. Did he feel it, too? Was he nervous to be sitting next to a self-confessed sexually frustrated woman?

Or maybe he wasn’t tense. Maybe he was feeling pity that her sex life was so unfulfilling. Maybe he was wondering if it was her fault.

Even her sister seemed to think that was the case. You’re terrified of feelings, which is why instead of experiencing wild abandoned passion, you spend your nights reading about wild abandoned passion. It’s the very definition of safe sex.

The words hurt, but words often hurt more when they were true.

Her head was fuzzy with jet lag. Her heart beating just a little too fast.

The coffee she’d drunk at breakfast might have been a mistake.

She was painfully conscious of Brodie McIntyre sitting within touching distance in the driver’s seat. It would have been easier if she hadn’t been so ridiculously attracted to him. It was enough that he knew her innermost thoughts in embarrassing detail, without having to deal with the added layer of complexity that came with sexual chemistry.

Laid by the Laird.

Samantha closed her eyes briefly. She was going to kill Charlotte.

In the meantime, she’d handle this situation the same way she handled any other crisis. She’d stay calm and work the problem.

Her body felt hot. Tight. Appalled, she sat up a little straighter and felt him glance at her.

“Everything all right?” His attention stoked the heat a little higher.

“Perfect. I’m excited to see what you have to offer—” Oh Samantha. “I mean on the estate, obviously.”

There was a pause.

“Is there anywhere in particular you want to start?”

“You decide. You’re the local expert.” She grabbed her phone from her lap and opened a notes file. She typed Brodie and then immediately deleted it and changed the heading to Kinleven, Day 1. She was going to focus on the place, not the person next to her.

Professional Samantha was going to smother wild Samantha.

He adjusted the heater. “This is the only vehicle we have that can handle the snow and rough terrain, but it’s pretty basic. No heated seats. Are you cold?”

“No. I’m hot. I mean—I’m warm enough. These are ski pants, and I have lightweight thermals under my sweater. I know a great deal about dressing for winter. Advising on appropriate clothing is one of the things we offer as part of our service to clients. We try not to recommend specific brands, but we give examples and—”

“Samantha—” he stopped the car in front of the gates “—could you relax? Your tension is making me tense.” Without waiting for her to reply, he sprang from the car and pushed open the gate.

Relax.

As if that was something one could do on command. As if she had chosen shallow breathing and tense muscles over the infinitely more comfortable alternative.

She watched as he secured the gates, then stamped down a pile of snow. He looked so comfortable in his surroundings it was hard to picture him living in a city, spending his days hunched over a computer screen.