had been the only time she’d ever seen him.
“He doesn’t bite unless I give the command.” Her suddenly lame brain was spitting out all the wrong things.
Dropping his arms, Craig advanced slowly, then knelt, his long, gorgeous legs bending beneath him as he called Brutus over. The two-hundred-plus-pound lug took half a minute to drag himself to a standing position and saunter over. Sitting a head above their only guest, Brutus stared the man down.
“Good boy,” Craig said, holding out a hand and Marybeth nearly dropped the glass she’d been holding. Not once in three years had a guest touched Brutus without her right there holding the dog and guiding the introductions.
Brutus, kind being that he was, didn’t rebuke Craig for his insolence. Instead he sniffed the hand beneath his nose and then sat, with only a small frown on his face, and accepted the petting that was, after all, his due.
“White wine or red?” Marybeth asked, turning to the cherrywood bar against one wall.
“White, please.” Even his voice warmed the space around him.
And suddenly, Marybeth heard Wendy’s voice in her head, “even his laugh makes me feel warm.”
What in the hell was going on here?
“Frosty the Snowman” played in the background—an old Partridge Family rendition that sounded more like a love ballad than a friendly rollick—leaving Marybeth embarrassed, though she had no idea why.
She didn’t meet his gaze as she handed him the wine. But she almost dropped the glass when his knuckles brushed against hers.
“There’s, uh, cheese and crackers and, um, fresh fruit on the bar. Help yourself,” she invited, having to concentrate to remember what food she’d just carried out.
She then went to turn down the temperature on the thermostat.
“Aren’t you joining me?” He gestured to the wine. “It’s impolite to drink alone.”
“Not when you’re the only guest it isn’t.” She couldn’t drink with him. He was a guest.
Though the relaxation she might find with a glass of wine sounded heavenly at the moment. She had too much Wendy and teenage love on the brain.
“Well, it’s not healthy,” he said, still holding the completely full glass. “Once you start drinking alone, it gets easier and easier and, before you know it, you’re pouring yourself a glass in the middle of the afternoon.”
Frowning, Marybeth wondered if she should have served any alcohol at all. If he had a problem…
It wasn’t her problem. He was a grown man. An adult—albeit a much younger one than she’d assumed. He couldn’t be much more than twenty-six or seven. Her age…
“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”
“Not my own,” he told her. “I used to…know…someone….”
Ah. Someone close to him if she had to guess. Not that it mattered to her.
“Yes, well, in that case, I’ll have one small glass.”
What? She didn’t want any wine. Not really. She was a hostess. Working.
And while she was pouring the drink she didn’t want, Marybeth wasted brain cells wondering what her guest thought of her red, heavily embroidered, beaded and appliquéd Christmas sweater, rather than if he liked the food she’d presented.
“You’re spilling.”
Oh, God. She was. Over her fingers. Setting down the bottle, Marybeth tried to come up with a pithy, logical and sensible excuse for overfilling her glass. To no avail.
But cleaning it up gave her a minute to berate herself. Collect herself. Cool down.
Was she attracted to this man?
Was this…this energy running through her body what Wendy had been talking about?
“So…” she asked, dropping the soaked napkins in the metal bin—it, too, matched the seasonal decor—beside the bar. “Who brings you to Santa Barbara for the holiday?” Busywork done, she faced him.
Craig choked midsip. “Who?”
“Can I get you some water?”
“No.” Another slight cough. “I’m fine. What did you mean, who?” Even though he was still emitting half coughs, his gaze was piercing. Too piercing.
“Well…” Marybeth led the way over to a conversational grouping of antique sofas in front of the gas fireplace, burning merrily for the occasion. To go with the air-conditioning she’d also just switched on. “It’s Christmas,” she said, sitting farthest from the tree while Brutus reclaimed his spot guarding their quarters. “I can’t imagine you’re here on business. Or for a beach holiday on Christmas Day. I assumed whoever you’re spending the holiday with didn’t have enough beds to accommodate everyone….”
“I’m spending the holiday with myself.”
He was available. Marybeth glanced at the third finger of his left hand. No wedding band.
No rings on those hands period.
“What about your parents?” The question came without her usual forethought and Marybeth wondered if she should escape to her private quarters, lock herself up or something until the craziness that was consuming her passed.
Grace, the woman who came in to help Marybeth clean, had had a cold a week or two ago. Perhaps she’d contracted some latent germ from the woman and the microscopic mite had suddenly decided to spring to life in her groin area.
“I’m sorry,” she added when he hesitated. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She stood. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ll just leave you to your evening. Remember, if you leave after seven, to take your key with you. The doors lock automatically—”
All information she’d already given him.
“No!” Craig stood, as well, his jeans and sweater a perfect fit on his tall, athletic body. She loved how his hair curled up over his collar. “Please, don’t go,” he was saying while she ogled him. “Unless you have something else to do, that is. I’d…love the company.”
She had to make breakfast. Sometime before six in the morning. And finish gluing together the clay pot snowman ornaments she was making for the refreshment tables at tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve services.
“I mean, I’ve never stayed at one of these before,” he said, sounding not the least bit awkward. “If it’s not proper, or something, for you to visit with your guests, I understand, I just thought…well, it is the holidays and I’m sure you have a million things to do—family that’s waiting for you.”
That was her opening. Or closing, she meant. Her escape.
“No, actually, I generally mingle during happy hour,” she heard
