her true tale had amused the barista. He took his hands out of his pockets, sidled behind her and dramatically blocked access to his van with his body and outstretched arms.
“In that case, maybe it would be best if you just handed out napkins and I did the rest,” Josh said with a melodramatic smirk.
“My thoughts, exactly.” Whitney loved to tell stories, making her perfect for her chosen profession. The more she mulled over her past Christmases, the more her spirits rose.
“Most of the time, Mom kept me out of the kitchen,” she said. “I must admit it was a relief.” She slipped off one glove, held out her hand and pointed to a faint scar on her index finger. “This is from the time I was helping slice tomatoes and I didn’t know Dad had sharpened Mom’s knives.”
Josh just shook his head.
“And this one,” she added, choosing another small scar, “is from trying to chop kindling wood at summer camp when I was about eight. That was in my pretend pioneer phase. Only I wanted to be the one out hunting buffalo, not the one staying behind at the covered wagon to bake biscuits.”
To her surprise, Josh reached for her hand and cradled it gently. His touch was light, yet Whitney felt the effects of it all the way from the top of her head to her toes.
With the fingers of his opposite hand he traced the scars as if the injuries were fresh and he was seeking to heal them. “Sounds like you were as fearless back then as you are now,” he said softly.
Whitney was rendered speechless. She opened her mouth but no sound escaped. The timbre of his voice was low, enthralling, and when he raised his gaze to meet hers she felt shivers dance along her spine. Was she truly fearless? If so, she was selective in her courage because right now, at this precise moment, she felt as if she might keel over in a dead faint.
It was the thought of that kind of embarrassment that brought her to her senses. She pulled her hand from his. Stepped back. Managed a smile, although she was unsure whether it was convincingly constructed or ludicrous.
“Thanks, I think.” Pivoting to face the music, she urged him to do the same. “Listen. You can hear Matt’s voice. It’s beautiful.”
When Josh didn’t comment she turned back to him and was startled by his strange expression. He was staring, not at the gazebo where the singers were massed, but at her.
The icy night air was so electrified between them, Whitney half expected to see real sparks arcing like the impressive emissions of lightning from a Jacob’s ladder in a physics lab.
The park and its occupants faded into the background.
The sound of the music drifted away.
Twinkling lights in the trees blurred until they were nothing more than a faint glow.
Whitney saw Josh take a purposeful step toward her. She held her breath, wondering what he was planning to do.
He slowly raised one hand and drew his finger down the side of her cheek as if he were tracing her portrait and needed to outline it perfectly.
She trembled but stood her ground.
Their eyes met. Gazes held.
Josh’s quirky, half smile was only for her.
“Matt’s voice isn’t the only beautiful thing,” he whispered. “There’s something about you tonight that I’ve never noticed before. Something very special.”
So nervous she could barely think, let alone come off sounding lucid and intelligent, Whitney employed her usual method of self-defense. She resorted to humor.
“Must be the cookies,” she quipped. “I am so full of sugar I should be climbing the walls.” She offered a playful smile. “Except we’re outside and there aren’t any. Walls, I mean.”
Josh’s laugh sounded uneasy, as if he were just as glad as she was to end their extraordinary moment. “In that case, see if you can find me a couple of the same kind you ate, will you? I suspect I may need all the energy I can muster to keep up with the workings of your brain.”
“Cookies won’t help,” Whitney told him with a wide grin. “I may be a lousy cook but I have a mind like a steel trap.” She was chuckling. “Of course, there are times when its jaws snap shut for no reason and I forget to reset it.”
Josh was shaking his head in the wake of the inane analogy. He turned away and climbed back into the van, ostensibly to check the warmer, leaving Whitney standing alone by the serving table.
Why had she made a silly joke about a very nice compliment? Why was it so hard to accept one coming from Josh? Was it because their previous encounters had been so fraught with tension? Or could it be because she was starting to like him far too much and realized how little she really knew about him?
Either was possible. Only one had a solution. If he continued to hide his past she would have to start digging deeper and casting a wider net, excuse the clichés.
The hardest part of her plan would be accepting whatever she discovered, when all she really wanted was to return to the moment when he had touched her and relive it, over and over and over.
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