One More for Christmas(99)

“Mmm.” His eyes were closed. “This is my fourth pair in two years.”

“Wow, now I’m intrigued.” She kept her arms locked around him. “What do you do to them?”

He turned his head to look at her. “The last pair was damaged a month ago when I was leaving the Stag’s Head.”

“The pub where you took me for lunch? What happened?”

“I had a little disagreement.”

“You mean a fight?” She couldn’t imagine it.

“Not exactly.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it was a fight of sorts, although no other humans were involved. Just me. And a patch of ice. We went about four rounds.”

“Ice? You slipped?” She started to laugh and he gave her a severe look.

“Is this your idea of sympathy? Because if so, it needs work.”

“Was there any damage?”

“You mean apart from to my glasses? Yes. I took a severe blow to my pride. It’s a particularly soft, sensitive part of me, and the damage was immeasurable.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. “Your honesty is—”

“A passion killer?”

“I was going to say refreshing.” She leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth and then his lips. “And adorable.”

“Adorable? Is that a good thing?” He hooked his arm around her, trapping her against him, and there was nothing soft or sensitive about the way he held her.

“I’m naked and in bed with you, and I’ve known you about—actually, forget it. I’m not going to think about how long I’ve known you. I’ll freak myself out. I don’t do this. I mean, not that there is anything wrong with sex you understand, but usually I have to really know someone before I get into bed with them.”

“I know. You told me.”

“Don’t remind me. I still can’t think about that without wanting to die. It was the worst, most embarrassing conversation I’ve had in my life.”

“It’s undoubtedly the best conversation I’ve had in my life.”

“You were embarrassed, too.”

“No. I’ve often dreamed of a woman telling me she wants to drink champagne naked in bed. You really messed with my sleep.” He lifted his hand and pushed her hair back from her face. “Especially after I looked you up. Cute photo, by the way.”

“You looked at my photo?”

“I might have peeked. Once or twice.”

“This is so unprofessional.”

“We’re not working. And technically, we haven’t agreed to work together yet, so there is nothing to be professional about.” He paused. “I don’t do this, either.”

“You don’t?”

“My last relationship was a disaster. We made you and Kyle look like Romeo and Juliet.”

“They both died.”

“Ah—a reminder that I should steer clear of literary references.”

“Why were you a disaster?”

He paused. “I suppose we didn’t like each other that much.”

“Not a good basis for a long, happy relationship.” She slid out of his arms and wandered naked to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. She drank it looking at the reflection of the moon on the water. “Do you know how weird this is?”

“What exactly?”

“Me, being naked with you, telling you everything. Being one hundred percent inner Samantha. I don’t do that.” But apparently she did do that.

So maybe he was right. Maybe change was possible.

Brave New You.

She filled another glass and took it back to him. “Unbelievable.”

“Are we still talking about you being naked?”

“No. We’re talking about the fact that I think I may actually have to read my mother’s book.”



Ella


“This is the first time I’ve seen you baking.” Ella sat at the kitchen table as her mother and Tab sifted flour into a large bowl, their movements uncoordinated and uneven.

“And it may be the last,” Gayle said, “because although the idea of baking is comforting, the truth is I don’t have Mary’s skills.”

“But you baked those delicious gingerbread men when we visited you in Manhattan, and Tab iced them.”

“Mmm. Truth?” Gayle glanced at her. “I made two batches that I threw away before I finally managed to produce something edible. Baking was something I did with my mother, and that was a long time ago. I never flew solo. I’m not pretending to be good at it.”

And no one watching her would have had reason to argue with her. She was floundering in the unfamiliar, every maternal muscle straining as she tried to be the best grandmother possible. There was something endearing about the way she gripped the sieve, as if unsure whether it should be held like a weapon or a utensil.

This was a new version of her mother. Not just being in the kitchen, but being unsure of herself. Her mother was always sure.

“It’s just a question of following a recipe.” Mary tactfully wiped up some of the flour that had landed everywhere other than the bowl. “And if you’re cooking with children, it’s about keeping it fun and simple. The end result isn’t important.”