whooshing through the round hole in the door where the knob should have been.
No smile.
“Ah.” He glanced around her front foyer, took in the small welcoming hallway tree, decorated entirely in tiny white angels, the garlands of white-bowed boughs that wove their way up the staircase and had, until seconds ago, filled her house with the sharp, fresh scents of pine and Christmas.
He stood directly under the sprig of mistletoe she had suspended from the ceiling, and that made her look at his lips.
And think a distressing thought, entirely inappropriate for an independent professional such as herself, about what they would taste like, and what price a woman would be willing to pay to know that.
Too much. The price would be too much. She was still reeling from her mistake in judgment about Peter. Guessing what a complete stranger’s lips might taste like was just proof, as if she needed more, that she was still capable of grave errors.
He frowned. “If you don’t operate as an inn at this time of year, do you do all of this decorating for your personal enjoyment?”
“I was expecting guests for the evening.” She fought further evidence of her poor judgment—a ridiculous temptation to drop the professional facade and to unburden herself about the disastrous inaugural evening of Holiday Happenings. Though his shoulders looked broad enough to cry on, his eyes did not look capable of sympathy.
His next words made her glad she had kept her confidences. “Do you have any rooms without the, er, Christmas theme?”
“You don’t like Christmas.” She said it flatly, a statement rather than a question. Given his expression, it was already more than obvious to her he did not like Christmas. And probably not puppies, love songs or tender movies, either.
Which was good. Very good. So much easier to get through a few hours of temptation—of her own bad decision-making abilities—if the effect of those intoxicating good looks were offset by a vile nature.
What kind of person doesn’t like Christmas? Especially with a baby! He practically has an obligation to like Christmas!
The baby gurgled, reached up from under the blanket and inserted a pudgy finger in her mouth.
Nothing in the man’s expression softened, but the baby didn’t seem to notice.
“Mama,” the baby whispered, and laid her head on his shoulder in a way that confirmed what Emma already knew. Her guest might be cynical and Christmas-hating, but she could trust him with her life, just as that baby, now slurping contentedly on her thumb, did.
“Is she wanting her mama?” Emma asked, struck by the backward bonnet again, by the incongruity of this man, seemingly without any kind of softness, being with this baby. Of course. A mother. That made her safe from this feeling, hot and liquid, unfurling like a sail catching a wind. He was taken. Her relief, her profound sense of escape was short-lived.
“No,” he said, and then astonishingly, a flush of red moved up his neck, and Emma saw the tiniest hint of vulnerability in those closed features.
He hesitated, “Unfortunately, that’s what she calls me.”
Again, Emma felt a tickle of laughter. And again it was cut off before it materialized, because of the unwanted softness for him when she thought of him being called Mama. It was a startling contradiction to the forbidding presence of him, ridiculously sweet.
Even though she knew it was none of her business, she had to know.
“Where is her mother?”
Something shot through his eyes with such intensity it sucked all the warmth from the room. It was more than sadness, for a moment she glimpsed a soul stripped of joy, of hope. She glimpsed a man lost in a storm far worse than the one that howled outside her door.
“She’s dead,” he said quietly, and the window that had opened briefly to a tormented soul slammed shut. His voice was flat and calm, his eyes warned her against probing his soul any deeper.
“I’m so sorry,” Emma said. “Here, let me take her while you get your coat off.”
But when she held out her arms, she realized she was still holding the broken door knob.
He juggled the baby, and took the doorknob with his free hand, his gloved fingers brushing hers just long enough for her to feel the heat beneath those gloves.
Effortlessly, he turned and inserted the knob in the door, jiggled it into place and then turned back to her.
His easy competence made Emma feel more off center, incompetent, as if her stupid doorknob was sending out messages about her every failing as an innkeeper.
“The coat rack is behind you,” she said, and then added formally, as if she was the doorman. “Is there luggage?”
“I hope we won’t be staying long enough to need it.” He handed the baby to her.
Me, too, Emma thought. The baby was surprisingly heavy, her weight sweet and pliable as if she was made of warm pudding, boneless.
The wind picked that moment to howl and rattle the windows, and it occurred to Emma she might be fighting temptation for more than a few hours. It was quite possible her visitors would be here at least the night. Thankfully she thought of the crib she had found so that the babies who came Christmas Day would have a place to nap.
The baby regarded her warily, scrunching up her face in case terror won out over curiosity.
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen months.”
“What’s her name?” Emma asked softly, grateful for the baby’s distraction against the man removing his jacket to reveal a dark, expensive shirt perfectly tailored to fit over those impossibly broad shoulders, dark trousers that accentuated legs that were long, hard-muscled beneath the fine fabric.
“Tess,” he provided.
“Hello, Tess,” she crooned. “Welcome to the White Christmas Inn. I’m Emma.”
“The White Christmas Inn?” the man said, “you aren’t serious, are you?”
“Didn’t you see the sign on the driveway?” Just this morning, she had placed the word Christmas over the word Pond, the letters of Christmas just the teensiest bit squished to make them fit.
“I saw a sign, I assumed it was for the inn, but most of it is covered in snow and ice.”
“The White Christmas Inn. Seriously.”
He groaned, softly.
“Is there a problem?”
His answer was rhetorical. “Do you ever feel the gods like to have a laugh at the plans of human beings?”
Even though he obviously expected no answer, Emma responded sadly, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
The
