Matthew's body went stiff as she poured, but then she quickly pressed the gauze to the cut again. "Okay, you hold it together and I'll tape."
He nodded, reached for an alcohol wipe and tore it open, then cleaned his hands with it. "Your Aunt Sheila--she's the one who raised you after...your family..."
"Yeah. I remember when I was in the coma, Mom telling me I had to go back." She applied the first bandage as he pinched the wound tight. It had to hurt. "She kept saying I had important things to do, and that there were people who needed me. She even specified that Aunt Sheila needed me. And it turned out, she really did. More than anyone."
"She was your mother's sister?"
"Yeah." She applied another butterfly.
"Your, uh...your family spoke to you. After they died, then."
A smile tugged at her lips. "I don't suppose you believe in that sort of thing. But they did. I mean, I was with them at first, when Mom said all that. But after I came back, she still...stayed in touch."
"How? You hear voices? See her in dreams?"
She put on the third bandage, sensing that this was important to him and answering carefully. "No. She sends me signs. All the time. Heck, that's why I'm here." She lifted her head. "You can let go now. It's all taped up." He took his hand away. She reached into the kit for more fresh gauze, tape, and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment.
"What did you mean, that's why you're here?"
"I kept seeing signs, telling me I should come home for Christmas. So I did. I didn't know why, or what the point was, but then you showed up." She applied a generous dollop of ointment, placed the gauze pad over it, and then taped it carefully in place.
"I showed up. You're saying you think I'm the reason she sent you here?"
"Well, you're the only reason I've seen so far."
"And what is it you think you're supposed to...uh...do with me?"
She lifted her head, met his eyes quickly, and smiled. "The only thing that comes to mind--besides the obvious..." He looked really interested when she said that, but she went right on, pretending not to notice, "Is that maybe I'm supposed to teach you how to love Christmas again."
She sat back on her heels. "All done."
He looked at the knee, nodded. "Nice job. Thanks."
"You can thank me by helping me decorate the tree."
He frowned, looking around the room. "You showed me every inch of this place, and I don't recall seeing any tree. Am I missing something?"
"My mother would never ask me to spend Christmas without a tree. We'll have one, somehow. Maybe one is growing close enough by so I can go out and get it when the snow stops. Or maybe Santa will bring one when he comes." She smiled and shrugged. "I don't know how we're going to get a tree, but I guarantee you, we'll have one."
"Ooookay."
She gathered up the wrappings, carried them to the fireplace, and tossed them into the flames Then she returned to the first aid kit, and packed it up, closed it, and set it in a corner for safekeeping.
"Does it hurt a lot?" she asked. "'Cause I have pain reliever, if--"
"No, it's okay."
"So it's your turn, then," she said. She bent to the fire and tossed as many logs onto it as seemed wise, then replaced the screen and walked to the sofa bed. He was still sitting on the side, his feet on the floor, one sock on, one off. She crawled right past him and lay down, snuggled into her pillow, and tugged the covers up over her. She turned onto her side, to face him, waiting.
"My turn to do what?"
"Tell me something about you." She patted the mattress beside her. "And lie down, will you? I'm not all that bad, am I?"
He didn't answer, but he did peel off his sweater and shirt, leaving on a T-shirt. Then he lay down stiffly, on his back, pulled the covers to his chin, and carefully left a good four inches of space between the two of them.
"Not much to tell," he said. "I live in Detroit. I have one sister--married with two kids. I buy, renovate, and sell houses. I do okay."
He stopped there, as if that was everything. She rolled her eyes. "I mean something real."
"Like what?"
"Like why you hate Christmas."
He turned, just his head, nothing else, toward her. "I don't talk about that."
"Oh, come on. After the stuff I told you?"
He sighed. "Actually, it's pretty similar. Eerily similar. But purely coincidental," he added, with a lift of his brows and a nod of his head. "My dad died the day before Thanksgiving. The holidays have never been my favorite time since."
"How old were you?"
"Twelve," he said.
"How did he die?"
"Heart attack."
"So that left just you and your mom and your sister."
"Yeah."
"She younger or older, your sis?"
"Younger."
She nodded. "So how did you celebrate Christmas that year?" she asked.
He frowned at her. "You're a nosy little thing, you know that?"
She shrugged. "I already told you, I like you, Matthew," she said. "I'm starting to think I like you very much."
"Uh...yeah, well..."
"And I think maybe Mom knew I would. And I don't think there's any such thing as coincidence."
"Look, Holly, don't go getting any...ideas...you know about...you and me. This is just a couple of strangers stranded in a snowstorm."
"Yeah. I know." She moved closer; he didn't move away. She said, "Can I just try something? Just to make sure?"
"Try...what?" he asked.
"This," she said, and she closed her eyes and pressed her mouth to his.
Bernie wore the hat into the diner, and found himself a seat at the counter, not wanting to take up space in a booth. After all, he wasn't a paying customer. He was there in search of handouts, though his favorite lady never made him feel as if he was.
There she was now, coming right up to him, wiping her hands on a crisp white towel as she did. She was sick, he knew, but he wasn't sure exactly how. Only that she got more lame by degrees. She used a cane now, and he'd heard someone say she would be in a wheelchair before long. Her little niece sure had stepped up to the plate, though.
"Now, honey, you can't even imagine how glad I am to see you," she said. "I just had a fellow come in here--you wouldn't believe the manners. Ordered a full-blown breakfast fit to feed a lumberjack, then got all huffy 'cause I didn't get it to him fast enough and took his business elsewhere. I been back here wringing my hands thinking of all that food going to waste. I don't suppose you might have room for it, would you?"
He shrugged. "I'd be glad of it, Sheila."
Her pretty face broke into a full-blown smile. "Oh, thank you, hon. Now, listen, it's gonna take a bit to warm it up for you. Why don't you head on back to that booth right there? It's next to the register. Gets too warm for most folks. And I'll bring it on back when it's ready. You want coffee or cocoa with that?"
"Cocoa would be good," he said. "If it's not too much trouble, I mean."
"No trouble at all." She had already hauled a heavy white mug from beneath the counter, and she turned to a big steaming pot that smelled like heaven, and poured frothy chocolate from it. She handed the mug to him and patted his hands. "My goodness, your hands are cold."
"Oh, they'll warm soon enough," he said, hugging them around the mug. "Thanks to you."
"Don't be silly, you're doing me the favor. Go on, go sit. I'll bring your food along presently."
Nodding, he got up off the stool and made his way back to the booth she'd indicated. He slid into it, grateful for the soft, cushioned seat, and the room to lean back and stretch out his legs underneath the table, and just soak up the heat wafting up from the register nearby. It felt good.
That Sheila, she was one in a million.
He took the felt hat off his head, and set it on the table beside him, remembering his manners late, but at least remembering them.
He wanted to give her something to thank her. But he didn't have much to
give. Then again, he thought, glancing down at the hat, it would be no great loss to give her the hat. It was just the sort of thing she would appreciate, and he would be no more without it than he had been a few hours ago.
That was it, then. He'd give her the hat. He had a feeling it was the right thing to do. Odd, that. But there it was.
Nine
HE DID NOT EXPECT HOLLY TO KISS HIM. HELL, THAT WAS the last thing he expected. And his initial reaction was a sudden, desperate urge to jump out of that bed and run for the door.
He didn't act on it quickly enough, though, and so the second urge stepped up to the plate. And that one was to wrap his arms around her and pull her close and kiss her right back.
Which was totally idiotic.
And yet, he did it. He rolled toward her, twisted his arms around her tiny waist, pulled her close to him, so her chest was pressed to his, and opened his mouth to feed from hers. And she opened hers, too, and he let his tongue caress those lips and she opened farther to welcome it inside. Damn. Damn, he was on fire all of the sudden. And it was dumb and made no sense whatsoever.
Finally, he lifted his head back a little, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. "I, um...this isn't a good idea, Holly."
"I think it's a really good idea," she said. "Life's too short not to embrace gifts like this. And this is a gift, Matthew. Don't think for one minute it's anything less."
"I don't even know you."
She shrugged. "You're about to."
He was tempted. Sorely tempted. This was like some fantasy out of the Penthouse Forum. But it wasn't a fantasy. It was real, and she was real, and there were real reasons not to sleep with someone you didn't know. Particularly without protection.
And that, he thought, was the one argument that might save him. Both from her persistence and his own weakness.
"We don't have any--"
"Yes, we do."
He blinked at her. She smiled at him, her head resting on the pillow, her eyes sparkling with firelight. "You know how I was saying before that it always pays to be prepared?"
"Uh-huh." It was a croak.
"Well?"
"I, um...I'm not looking for--"
"Let's not question this, okay? Let's not analyze it or talk about it or, God forbid, waste it. Let's just enjoy it. Right now. In the moment. Can we do that?"
He had yet to meet a woman capable of any such thing. Then again, he thought, he had yet to meet a woman quite like this one.
"I can do that," he said softly. And now he got a little braver, reached out with his fingers to stroke a wisp of a blond curl from her cheek. And then he paused with that curl in his fingers, rubbing it. So soft. And her cheek, even softer. "Can you?"
"I've spent my entire life living in the moment. It's the only way I got through, sometimes."
He felt the surprise rinse through him at that admission--the admission that she had ever been less than perfectly happy. It was something he didn't imagine she let a lot of people see. And then he looked at her, really looked at her, and he saw beyond the happy, new age, positive-energy-spouting hippie. He saw a woman who'd been gutted, just like he had been. She was empty, and searching for something to fill that emptiness. She was vulnerable and needier than she knew. And right now, what she needed was him.
Unfortunately, he couldn't handle being quite that needed.
He stroked her cheek once more, then leaned closer, and pressed his lips to it. "I can't, Holly. I'm sorry."
Her eyes slammed closed. White teeth bit down on her lower lip. She rolled onto her back and flung a forearm over her face, probably to hide it from him. "It's okay. I understand."
"I'll probably regret it for the rest of my life, if that's any consolation."
"It's not, 'cause I will, too."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"You should be."
"It's not that I'm not...attracted to you."
"Well, duh."
He frowned at her--well, toward her. She still had her arm over her face. "I don't follow."
"By 'well, duh,' I mean, 'obviously you're attracted to me' and 'who wouldn't be, anyway?'"
"Any man in his right mind would be," he said. "Maybe I just see more than they would."
"Suddenly the Grinch is Mister Insight?" she asked. "This oughtta be good."
"Would be, but I'm not going there. You going to be able to sleep?"
"Not much else to do," she replied. Then she rolled onto her side, away from him, punched her pillow as if it had done something to make her very angry, and lay still.
"I'm sorry, Holly."
"Stop saying that."
He sighed, tried to relax into the pillow, and closed his eyes. But he wasn't a bit sleepy. Mostly, his mind was busy conjuring what it would have been like. What he could have been doing, right then, instead of lying there, bored, wide-awake, and turned on in spite of himself.
Yep. He was an idiot.
EVENTUALLY, SHE SLEPT. SHE WASN'T SURE HOW. SHE'D been pretty much embarrassed to the roots of her hair to have offered herself to him so blatantly, only to have him turn her down cold.
Damn. She'd thought she had more sex appeal than that.
At any rate, she lay there stewing and frustrated until, finally, sleep had claimed her. And it seemed that sleep had its own ideas about what the two of them would and would not be doing in the comfort of the sofa bed.
Because when she opened her eyes, and she saw him opening his, they were lying, face to face. Close enough to kiss. They were tangled together. Her arms were around his neck. His were around her waist. Her leg was over his, his upper one was in between hers.
And before she could move, he was kissing her. Eyes falling closed, mouth moving to capture hers, arms curling tighter, pulling her closer.
"You don't have to..." she whispered when his lips slid from hers to her neck. And once he started kissing her neck, it was all over. That was her weak spot, right there. She thought wildly that she even liked his morning breath. It wasn't bad. Just real. Raw.
"I have to," he muttered against her skin. "Trust me, I have to."
She didn't have to be told twice. She arched her hips toward his, and he pushed back, then pressed her onto her back and slid his hand down the front of her pajama bottoms. She scrambled out of them to give him better access. Then she tugged at his clothes as they kissed some more, wrestling his T-shirt over his head. He pulled her pajama top free of its buttons, pushed it off her shoulders. And then his mouth was moving from hers, down her neck to her chest. She shivered when he found her breasts, mouthed them, suckled them.
Pleasure shot through her like fire through a dry forest. Heat so intense she thought she might go up in flames. He touched her, then his hand slid between her legs, not hesitantly, not timidly, but eagerly. And he groaned at the heat and wetness he felt there.
She arched against his hand, silently pleading for more, and he didn't make her wait. He rolled on top of her, slid inside her, and she quivered and sighed as he filled her. The sensation grabbed hold and wouldn't let go. She tipped her hips up to his and took all of him, until he drove the very breath from her lungs. And then again and again. He kept on kissing her the entire time they twisted and writhed and pressed into each other. Straining, reaching, taking, and giving. And all the while his mouth took hers. He kissed her as if he loved kissing her. As if he didn't want to stop. No man had ever done that before--kissed her all the way through sex. Open-mouthed, hungry, wet kisses. As if he wanted to devour her. As if he couldn't get enough.
It made her feel more wanted than she had ever felt in her life. And she wondered where he'd been hiding all this passion, all this fire. Thank God he wasn't hiding it now.
His hands slid underneath her backside, to hold her to him, tilt her up to take him, and he drove even deeper, and faster, and his kisses became more desperate. He was pushing her toward climax, and she reached for it, ached for it. And then, suddenly, he pulled back just slightly, tried to slow his pace.
br /> "No," she whispered. "No, Matthew, don't stop."
"But I'm--"
"So am I."
She clutched his hips and rode him, moving against him as the wave crested, and crashed to the shore. Her entire body shuddered in sweet anguished ecstasy. She clung and she cried out, and then he was doing the same as he drove deep and held there, throbbing inside her.
They clung that way for a long time, and he kissed her again and again as her body sank into the most relaxed state of bliss she had ever felt. He withdrew after a time, rolling onto his side, pulling her close into his arms. She snuggled against him, content and sated.
Moments ticked past. Long moments as her body just hummed.
"We're very different people, you and I," he said eventually.
She stayed where she was, warm and cozy in his arms. "We have a lot in common, too, though. Not that I'm saying we have to, or--"
"I know." He sighed. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, his breath in her hair. Maybe she wasn't entirely sated just yet, she thought with a secret smile. "We had similar tragedies, centered around the holidays, when we were kids. But we reacted in entirely different ways."
"Will you tell me now? About that first Christmas without your dad?"
He was silent for a long moment. So long she began to think he wasn't going to answer her at all. And then he said, "Dad had this hat. This old felt hat he wore everywhere."
"Not a fedora," she whispered.
"Yeah. A black felt fedora. He always told me he'd give it to me one day. Like it was some kind of an heirloom or something. It was an inside joke between us."
"That's incredibly special."
"My mother sold it, along with all his things, to a secondhand shop so she could use the money to buy us kids Christmas presents."
"Oh, no."
"Yeah. It was just a stupid hat. But it meant something to me. I don't even remember what she bought me that year. Just that the hat was gone, and we couldn't get it back. And it got to me. I guess I resented Christmas over that, as much as anything else."
"I don't blame you. It must have been like losing that one last little piece of him."
She felt him nod. "That's exactly what it was like." He hugged her a little tighter. "Maybe it would have been easier if I believed...like you do. If he'd--I don't know--talked to me or showed up in a dream or sent me some kind of unmistakable sign, you know? But to me, it was like he was just gone. Just...gone."