of oneself was the greatest joy of the holidays. Sure, it would be nice to have someone give to her, to share the moments with, but she’d already decided once today that she’d had enough self-pity.
“I’m not a cynic,” he denied, but the more he talked, the more convinced she became that he was.
“I’m a realist,” he clarified. “For most, Christmas is a major stressor with trying to come up with the perfect gift, trying to figure out how they’re going to pay for that gift, and how they’re going to fight the crowds to make sure they get their hands on that perfect gift.”
“You’re so negative,” she pointed out, wondering what had given him such a slanted view of her favorite time of the year. “I see Christmas as at time when you get to search out that special gift to bring a smile to someone’s face. A gift meant just for them from you that signifies who they are and how much you appreciate having them in your life.”
“It’s about rushing from one place to the next,” he went on, as if she’d never interrupted his tirade. “Never quite satisfying family and friends with how much of your time you can allot for the festivities they planned without any consideration for your busy schedule. It’s about high emotions and family bickering and—”
“Bah, humbug,” she interrupted, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down beside him, positive she was staring at a complete stranger. Who would have thought the wonderful emergency doctor was such a Scrooge? The caring man who’d been as devastated by the deaths of two patients as she had? “Say what you will, but that’s not what Christmas is about. Not to me, and you should be ashamed for being so…so…Grinchy!”
He eyed her for long, silent moments, studying her as if she were an oddity. Then, as if he’d not just dissed her favorite holiday, dissed her favorite childhood memories of perfect Christmas moments, his lips curved into a crooked smile. “If it’s any consolation, I really like Christmas fudge.”
Taking a deep breath, relaxing the tension that had tightened her neck muscles, Abby sighed. How could she stay annoyed at him when he gave her that boyish look that made her toes curl in her shoes?
“Good thing I didn’t know all this about you when I asked you to be Santa,” she said, smoothing out the edge of a plain red and green table placemat. “You, Dr. Kelley, are no Santa Claus.”
“You asked me to be Santa because you couldn’t get anyone else to agree.” Still showing wry amusement, his gaze pinned hers. “Admit it.”
An unexpected giggle rose up her throat. “Okay, you’re right. Everyone else I asked claimed to be busy.”
“Such classic examples of Christmas goodwill and cheer.”
“They were probably busy,” she said defensively, although she doubted any of them could match her holiday season schedule. Every year she took on as many projects as she could fit in.
“Sure they were.” He popped the last piece of his fudge into his mouth. “But if they’d known they could maneuver their way into your kitchen, you’d have had to beat Santa-wannabes away with stockings filled with coal.”
“I’m guessing you’d know a lot about those stockings filled with coal.” At his mock look of horror, she smiled. “You should’ve tried my mother’s Martha Washington candy.”
Memories of standing on a chair beside her mother, carefully dipping rolled candies into melted chocolate, her mother smiling down at her, praising her efforts, filled Abby’s heart. How she longed for a family to spend Christmas with.
Dirk reached for a second square of fudge. His sooty ashes swept across his cheeks as he bit into it. Was it shameful she’d like to see that blissful look on his face while he tasted her lips? Yes. Yes, it was. They’d agreed anything physical between them was a mistake. She’d agreed when he’d said that.
It had been a mistake. Hadn’t it? Or had agreeing with him been the mistake?
Because looking at him, being here with him, denying the way she wanted him when she wanted him so badly sure felt like the bigger mistake.
Chapter Three
“IF YOU’RE more into peanut butter, there’s always peanut-butter balls and homemade peanut brittle,” she rushed out, trying to redirect her mind away from the direction it was headed.
Eyes wide, his gaze lifted to hers. He looked like an eager little boy. Like he’d looked that morning when he’d devoured her mouth.
He placed his hand over his heart. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. You’re right. I was too easy. I should have asked for peanut brittle.”
She laughed out loud at his look of ecstasy.
Just as quickly her laughter faded as more memories of another time, another look of ecstasy had been on his handsome face.
When he’d been standing just inside her front door, awkwardly saying goodbye but making no move to leave. The only move he’d made had been to bend and gently kiss her lips.
Then he’d kissed her not so gently.
Oh, Lord, how he’d kissed her.
And kissed her.
No, she couldn’t keep thinking of that morning. Not with him here, alone, in her house, just the two of them and the bed where he’d made love to her.
No, not love. They’d just been two colleagues dealing poorly with a very stressful night in the emergency room.
Her gaze tangled with his and his good humor faded just as quickly as hers had. Was he remembering, too? Recalling that the last time he’d been in her house, he’d never seen the kitchen but had had an up-close-and-personal tour of her bedroom?
He stuck the remainder of his fudge in his mouth, stood and brushed his hands over the faded jeans he’d changed into in her guest bathroom after his shower. When he’d swallowed the mouthful, he took a step back. “I put your Santa suit on the sofa.”
His words managed to pull her from memories of Dirk’s last visit to further in the past. Her father’s Santa suit. When Dirk had asked her about what he’d wear, she’d instantly offered her father’s suit.
“Thanks for the fudge and for the loan of the suit.”
“It was the least I could do as you filled in for Santa.” True, but had anyone else agreed to play the role, she would have bought a cheap Santa costume from a department store. For Dirk, she’d dug out the treasured suit that had belonged to her father.
“Thanks all the same.”
“If you hadn’t agreed, I’d have had to play Santa.” Not that her father’s suit would have fit her, but she’d have made it work somehow. “I think the kids might have been scarred for life.”
His gaze raked over the ample upper part of her body. “You’re probably right about that. You’re no Santa.” He tossed her earlier words back at her.
Abby didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. Either way, heat crept
