shrugged, trying not to let on how his appearance had made her aware of a dreadful weakness in her character. Morgan wanted a big, strong guy just to come in and take over.
She wanted a man to figure out the blasted stand, saw off those bottom branches, muscle the huge, unwieldy tree into place, put the star on top and figure out lights that looked as if they required a degree in engineering to sort out.
Nate truly was the devil, arriving here at a horrible moment, when she felt vulnerable and lonely. He was tempting her to rely on something—or someone—other than herself. She was sending him back into the night.
“Do you want help with the tree?”
“No,” she spat out quickly before the yes, yes, yes clawing its way up her throat could jump out and betray her.
He nodded, but he could clearly see the horrible truth. She was the kind of helpless female the new her was determined not to have any use for!
“I brought over the board to put the coat hangers on. I could put it up for you if you want.”
Her eyes went to what he was holding. A helpless female might weep at the beauty of the board he had reclaimed for her. It was honey-colored, the grains of the wood glorious, the surface and edges sanded to buttery smoothness.
Well, right after he put it up for her, she was sending him back into the night. She would draw the line at allowing him to help with the tree.
Despite wanting to rebel against the teachings of the blissfully single Amelia, Morgan knew she would be a better person, in the long run, if she put that tree up herself. She stepped back from the door, and he stepped in.
She touched the board. “That’s not what I was expecting,” she said. “Something worn and weathered. When you said it was barn wood, I thought gray.”
“It was, before I ran it through the plainer. Some of this old wood is amazing. This piece came from a barn they pulled down last year that was a hundred and ten years old.” His fingers caressed the wood, too. “Solid oak, as strong and as beautiful as the day they first milled it.”
Morgan was struck again by something about Nate. His work always seemed to be about things that lasted. There was something ruggedly appealing about that in a world devoted to disposable everything.
Including relationships.
There was a tingle on the back of her neck. A relationship with this man would be as solid as he was, a forever thing, or nothing at all.
Don’t you dare think of him in terms of a relationship, the devoted-to-independence woman inside her cried. But it was too late. That particular horse was already out of the barn.
“Where’s Ace?” she said, glancing behind him.
“The Westons took her to the Santa Claus parade and then she’s sleeping over at their place. Ace is thrilled.”
As she closed the door, she read a moment of unguarded doubt on his face. “You, not so much?”
“I don’t know. I don’t quite get the purpose of it. I get going tobogganing, or to a movie. I don’t get sleeping at someone else’s house.”
Don’t blush, she ordered herself. They were not talking about adult sleepovers.
“Sleeping is not an activity,” he muttered.
“Believe me, they won’t be doing much sleeping. Probably movies and popcorn. Maybe some makeup.”
“Makeup?” He ran a hand through his hair and looked distressed. “I hoped I was years away from makeup. And don’t even mention the word bra to me.”
Believe me, that was the last word I was going to mention to you.
He could fluster her in a hair, damn him. She tried not to let it show. “Not serious makeup. Not yet. You know, dress-up stuff. Big hats, an old string of pearls, some high heels.”
“Oh.”
“Is there something deeper going on with you?” she asked. “Something that needs to be addressed?”
Morgan saw she could fluster him in a hair, too.
“Such as?” he asked defensively.
“Any chance you don’t like losing control, Nate?”
He scowled, and for a moment she thought she was going to get the lecture about knowing everything again. But then she realized he wasn’t scowling at her. After a long silence, he finally answered.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he admitted reluctantly. “I felt like I wanted to call the Westons and conduct an interview.”
Interrogation, she guessed wryly. “What kind of interview?”
“You know.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. He sighed. “Just casually ferret out information about their suitability to have Ace over. Don’t you think I should know if anyone in the house has a criminal record? Don’t you think I should know if they consume alcoholic beverages? And how many, how often? Don’t you think I should know if they have the Playboy channel? And if it’s blocked?”
Morgan was trying not to laugh, but he didn’t notice.
“Even if I got all the right answers,” he continued, “I still would want to invite myself over and just as casually check their house for hazards.”
“Hazards? Like what?”
“You know.”
“I’m afraid I can’t even imagine what kind of hazards might exist at the Westons’ house.”
His scowl deepened. “Like loaded weapons, dogs that bite, unplugged smoke detectors.”
She was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She knew it would be the wrong time to laugh. “The Westons are very nice people,” she said reassuringly. “Ashley is active in the PTA.”
He sighed. “Intellectually, I know that. That’s how I stopped myself from phoning or going in. I grew up with Ashley Weston. Moore, back then. She was a goody-goody. I guess if Ace has to sleep somewhere other than her own bed, I want it to be at a house where I know the mom is a goody-goody. Sheesh. The PTA. I should have guessed.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Morgan suggested drily.
“I’m not trying it. Don’t even think about sending me a note.”
There were quite a few single moms in the PTA, probably the same ones who swarmed him at the supermarket, so, no, she wouldn’t send him a note.
“Still—” he moved on from the PTA issue as if it hardly merited discussion “—what about next time? What if Ace gets invited to someone’s house where I didn’t grow up with their parents? Or worse, what if I did, and I remember the mom was a wild thing who chugged hard lemonade and swam naked at the Old
