On a long loop of ribbon, a clump of mistletoe dangled from the ceiling. He reacted instantly

But while Mike had the honed reflexes of a fighter pilot, Merry had a head start. The cold air made his lungs seize, but he got the words out. “Don’t you want…me to…kiss you?”

She frowned. “Not with my parents pushing us together so obviously. Not with you leaving in only a week. Not when we’re both pressured by the circumstances.”

He dropped the timbre of his voice to a conspiratorial level that was only partly joking. “What are these circumstances you speak of?”

She blinked. “You don’t know?”

“Nick told me lots of things, including that you and the guy you lived with split up recently. Is that what you mean? Are you broken-hearted?”

“I’m not broken-hearted,” she whispered. “But I am…”

“Eminently kissable,” he said, and gathered her into his arms so she couldn’t run away again. He took her mouth with certainty. After a moment he deepened the kiss and dropped his hands to her waist.

Ding. A bell went off in his head. Plink. The penny dropped. Click. Pieces came together.

“Meredith.” She looked straight at him, nodding a little. “You’re pregnant.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A lifelong Michigander, Carrie Alexander has been writing for more than a decade, garnering two RITA® Award nominations and a Romantic Times BOOKreviews career achievement award along the way. At Christmas she indulges her artistic side by spending too many hours wrapping gifts, creating birch-bark wreaths and decorating sugar cookies.

Dear Reader,

A town called Christmas actually exists. It’s located near Lake Superior, on highway M-28 in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Giant Mr and Mrs Claus signs welcome visitors to the Christmas mall, while the town’s post office hand-cancels Christmas cards sent from around the country. Though my version of Christmas, Michigan, has been fictionalised to include the tree farm of the heroine’s family, the Parade of Lights and a tavern named the Christmas Cheer, the essence of the rugged, can-do spirit remains true to life.

I hope you find a little quiet time during your own busy holiday season to enjoy Merry and Mike’s story.

Happy holidays!

Carrie

PS Visit my website at www.CarrieAlexander.com for Christmas cookie recipes and news bout future projects.

A Town Called Christmas

CARRIE ALEXANDER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my father:

Christmas-tree seller, ski jumper

and storyteller extraordinaire

PROLOGUE

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Michael Kavanaugh relished the crucial seconds of the strike fighter’s final approach to the aircraft carrier. For that brief time, he had nothing else occupying his mind. His sorry excuse for a personal life vanished. All that mattered were his years of flight experience—from the first day of ground school through combat sorties to making just one more successful trip.

He entered the traffic pattern at two hundred and fifty knots, flying up the wake of the ship with his tailhook down, and completed a brisk break turn and deceleration. Landing gear and flaps extended.

A red indicator light blinked on his instrument panel. Too fast. He pitched nose up, passing the ship’s port side now. A turn to final approach, hand on throttle, looking for the “meatball,” the colored-light array that was his optical landing aid. The orange meatball was centered, indicating an optimum glide slope. One clipped radio announcement and response from the landing signal officer and he was good to go.

Final approach. Every thought, every sensation, narrowed to an arrow point of concentration. The small, rapid corrections he made to maintain the ideal angle were automatic.

The plane hit the deck with a solid thump. Mike jammed full throttle in anticipation of a bolter—where the tailhook bounced past the ship’s arrestor wires despite a perfect approach—but the hook caught and he was safely aboard.

He exhaled. That was it. The last “E” ticket ride of the day.

Still high on the rush, he looked to a yellow-shirted crew member for directions to taxi the Rhino to its parking spot.

Afterward, still in his green flight suit, Mike reported to his home away from home, the Blue Knight squadron’s ready room. The room was outfitted with rows of assigned chairs, a television and other amenities, along with the banners and crest of the squadron. Grades for the day’s approaches would be posted, but that wasn’t his present focus.

He exchanged greetings with a couple of pilots before settling into his padded chair, wishing that just once there might be some privacy. It was a futile wish, but there’d been nothing else for him, lately.

With grim resolution, he reached into an inside pocket, feeling the strain where the shoulder harness had bruised his collarbone. The letter he withdrew was already familiar in his hand, even though he’d received it only a few days ago, four months in to the cruise. He had every word memorized, but then that had been an easy task. The letter was short and concise, as if Denise hadn’t wanted to waste any more time or words on the breakup of their lengthy engagement.

Mike unfolded the letter. Reading it again was like prodding an aching tooth with his tongue. He did it over and over to see if it had stopped hurting.

Soon enough, it would. Because even though the news had hit him in the gut like a swallow of Applejack, Denise was right. There was no great love lost between them, only injured pride.

The letter was dated the twenty-fourth of May.

Dear Michael,

You must already know what I’m going to write. I heard it in your voice the last time we talked. We haven’t really been in love for a long time now.

That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry to do this. You’ll take it as a failure, but you shouldn’t. It’s more my fault than yours. I just didn’t know how lonely it would be, waiting for you to come back. Although, to be brutally honest, there were times you seemed a thousand miles away even when you were here.

What I see now is that my feelings for you aren’t strong enough to take the frequent separations of military life. I doubt yours are, either.

So I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.

I’ll always remember you and the good times we had, but I know that this is the right thing to do. And you believe in doing the right thing, don’t you? That’s practically your mantra.

Maybe one day we’ll meet again, in happier circumstances.

Yours truly,

Denise

CHAPTER ONE

“ARE YOU CERTAIN we’re not at the North Pole?” Michael surveyed the frigid landscape beyond the ice-encrusted windows of the rental car. After his deployment to the Persian Gulf earlier that year, he was familiar with loneliness and deprivation, but he’d never been to a place as cold and isolated as this before.

The strange new world was nearly colorless. Out of the flannel sky, fat, lazy snowflakes spiraled toward the windshield in random loops and whirls. A frosty two-lane highway stretched away into a frigid forest of bare branches and ragged pines, which were burdened by mantles of heavy snow. Even the sun seemed leached of warmth and color, a tissue-paper disk hidden behind layers of clouds.

Michael shivered inside his Navy-issued topcoat. His bleak mood offered no more warmth than the rental car’s faulty heater.

Christmas in a town called Christmas. The stuff of sugar plum dreams, except he wasn’t buying it. There was no magic remaining in Mike’s world.

“Gotta be the North Pole,” he grumbled.

“Nah.” Nicholas York shoved the heating lever up to full blast, hoping to eke out another degree of warmth. The hearty Yooper—a common slang term for a denizen of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—had been Mike’s closest friend since flight school in Corpus Christi, right on through to their present assignment in the Blue Knight strike fighter squadron. “Not unless our pilot took a wrong turn.”

Michael grunted. “I didn’t like the look of the man.” They’d connected in Detroit, flown north in a rinky-dink prop plane, then disembarked at an airport in the middle of nowhere. From there they’d driven over a hundred miles deeper into nowhere. Maybe they had traveled beyond the North Pole.

“Only because you hate giving up control,” Nicky said cheerfully.

He had good reason to be cheerful. Nicky was going home for the holidays, to his wife and children. While Mike was glad their leave had come through at the last minute, for the Yorks’s sake, he sure wished he had a better plan than extra-wheeling it with someone else’s family for the holidays. If Nicky hadn’t insisted, Mike might have spent the time off hunkered down with a case of Michelob and a sixty-four-inch football telecast, in an effort to forget that he had no homecoming reunion of his own. Not even one that took place in a frozen wasteland.

Mike burrowed deeper into the coat’s raised collar. “I’m here, aren’t I? Seven days of Christmas in a town called Christmas. Seven days of out-of-control holiday celebration.”

Nicky gave him a look. An I-know-what’s-frosting-your-butt look. “Buck up. There are no Scrooges in a Christmas Christmas.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ordinarily, Mike was a doer, not a brooder, but he’d had a lousy year. First he’d been Dear Johned, then stranded for the holidays by a mother and stepfather who’d rather cruise Belize than gather around a faux fireplace in their Florida condo. Adding the recent news that his squadron would soon be sent on another tour of the Gulf had put him in an unusually morose mood.

He looked out at the barren landscape and said, with heavy sarcasm, “Another fine Navy Day.”

“Hey, now.” Nicky peered eagerly through the windshield, as if there was anything out there except more of the same. “Wait’ll you see Shannon and the kids. They’ll get you into the Christmas spirit.”

“Don’t worry,” Mike said. One good, swift kick in the keister would jar him out of his malaise. “I’ll be jolly for them. Ho, ho, ho.”

While more than a year had passed since Mike had seen Nicky’s family, they’d always be tight. There had been many good times, especially during the first years of duty after the men had earned their wings. Mike was the godfather to the Yorks’ first son, Charles, known as Skip. And Shannon had fixed Mike up with Denise, so they’d frequently double-dated with the Yorks.

At that thought, the fond memories might have turned sour, but Mike wouldn’t let them. He focused on Nicky’s kids instead. He was looking forward to being Uncle Mike again. Presents were wrapped and ready in his luggage.

There were also other family members to meet on this visit—parents, two sisters, assorted aunts and uncles. All of them ready to welcome Mike with open arms. Given his less-than-festive mood, the prospect was not entirely heartening.

Mike straightened. “What’s that? That big, white thing?”

“What?” Nicky followed Mike’s nod. “You mean the snowman?” He leaned over the steering wheel. “We’re home.”

The plywood snowman was fifteen feet tall, erected on the side of the road beside a placard that read Welcome to Christmas, Michigan. Mike stared as they drove by. The snowman’s painted details were faded by time and a dusting of snow, but the message was clear. He was in for it.

“There’s a Santa sign on the western end of town,” Nicky said, almost apologetically.

Celebrate or bust. Mike geared himself up as they drove toward a cluster of buildings that signified the outskirts of the town. Here was color at last. Every structure was strung with lights and decorated to the max. Bulbous, blow-up cartoon figures perched atop piles of snow. Plastic reindeer ran a roof line. Metallic man-made trees sat side by side with the real thing, all of them circled with blinking lights. The holiday banners that had been strung from the electric poles flapped in the wind.

“I ought to bring something,” he said suddenly. “Like a…what do you call it—a hostess gift?”

“Don’t bother. We Yorks are an informal bunch.”

“No.” Mike seized on a plan that would give Nicky and his family some private time. And himself, too. “When we reach the downtown area, drop me off. I’ll nip into a gift store, then get a taxi—” He stopped abruptly, supposing that there were no taxis. “I’ll hitch a ride, or whatever. If your family’s place is close enough, I can walk.”

“In this storm?” Nicky shook his head. The snowfall had thickened. Clumps of the white stuff had accumulated at the edges of the windshield wipers that swept the glass. “Mom would never forgive me. She’s expecting you.”

“Right—for dinner.” Mike tucked a wool scarf into his coat collar and removed a pair of gloves from one pocket. “You want me to look bad, showing up empty-handed?”

“All right.” Nicky braked. “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.” He pulled off the highway beside a mound of waist-deep snow. A couple of people bundled like penguins emerged from one of the lit-up buildings and waddled toward a stop sign that crowned another of the snowbanks. The street corner, presumably.

Mike glanced around. The smattering of buildings was still a smattering. “Where’s the shopping district?”

“This is it.”

“What about the downtown?”

“This is it.”

“This is it?” This was nothing. The way Nicky had talked about his hometown’s Christmas celebrations, Mike had expected a mini-Times Square, not a hodgepodge of humble businesses and homes half buried in snow. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Christmas is small.” Nicky grinned. “But it’s got a big heart.” He pointed past the steering wheel. “There’s the grocery, that’s the post office and beside it is a gift store. The brick building across the street is a tavern called The Christmas Cheer. You can get warmed up there.”

Michael stepped from the car and straightened. He took a gulp of the chilly air, smelling wood smoke as he looked from building to building. The tavern seemed to be the center of town—surrounded by vehicles, bursting jukebox music and activity. Three doors away, a white steepled church stood silent and closed, save for the tree sparkling with lights beside a signboard that listed service times beneath the spattered snowfall.

“See you in an hour, man.” Mike shut the door, feeling road weary and run dry. Whether he was plunked in a Michigan snow pile or stranded on the arid mesas of Arizona where he’d grown up, small towns were all the same. Even when they came dressed in garish decoration.

“One hour, then,” Nicky said with a nod. He gave a wave and put the car into gear.

Mike straightened his shoulders as he surveyed the town again. Travelers must have barely slowed down when they reached Christmas. A heavy foot on the gas, one blink of the eyes and they’d be out the other side.

A rush of wind sent snowflakes whirling. Mike tasted them on his lips. They clung to his lashes. He blinked and the swinging strings of lights that festooned the town turned to multicolored stars, blurry at the edges.

A second hard blink restored his vision. He was particularly glad of that when he saw the woman.

She was crossing the road, swept along by the wind. Her long, heavy coat flapped open. The tails of a red scarf whipped free, dancing like semaphore flags. Between the scarf and a matching knit hat pulled snugly past her ears was a fringe of golden-blond hair, molded to her pinkened cheeks.

The woman shot a clenched smile at Mike as she hurried past him and into one of the modest shops. She clutched a large leather purse and a paper gift bag with mitten-clad hands.

Pretty lady. A needle-sharp shot of interest made Mike’s sluggish blood quicken.

He huddled in the cold, considering his shopping options. Severely limited. So why not follow her? The store she’d entered looked promising. Icicle lights danced from the eaves. A giant candy cane stood sentry at the door, twined in ribbon and evergreen garland.

A bell went off as Mike pushed inside. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat. The blond woman was at the cash register, chatting to the clerk while she shook snow off her hat and mittens. “My mother went and invited Oliver for Christmas dinner, since he’ll be alone. I need to find him a last-minute gift.”

The salesclerk, a rounded woman in her middle years, leaned over the counter and made a whispered comment. Both of them glanced at Mike, who was peeling off his gloves. “Merry Christmas, sir,” said the clerk. Her smile was big and toothy. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

The blonde turned away before he got a good look at her face. “No rush,” he said. “I’ll look around.”

The store was small. He prowled the rows of gift items, mainly Christmas-themed ornaments and such. He eyed the blonde over a rack of greeting cards. Something about her was arresting—her color, her brisk energy, the effervescent cheer that bubbled in her voice as she chatted about holiday preparations while fingering a display of fountain pens near the register.

“Finding anything?” the clerk called.

Mike nodded and pulled out a card at random. A cardinal in the snow.

He advanced along the aisle. Wrapping paper, twig reindeer, needlepoint Christmas stockings. Porcelain plates painted with winter scenes. Matching coffee mugs. What did a man without the proper Christmas spirit get to thank his best friend’s parents for welcoming him into their home and holiday?

“Is it a fix-up?” the clerk asked her other customer. “You and Oliver?”

“Good grief, no.” The blonde seemed alarmed by the idea. Her hands flashed over her hair before tucking a lock of it behind one pink-rimmed ear. A small gold hoop pierced the lobe. “In my situation? No.”

Mike glanced away so he wouldn’t be caught staring. Situation?

“Not even my mother, desperate as she is to marry me off, could think I’d possibly be interested in…” The woman shook her head in the emphatic negative.

Desperate?

The sales clerk clucked. “Then she’s still on your case?”

“In her own way.” A shrug. “You know my mom—she’s so proper. This is hard for her.”

“Well, she probably knows that Oliver’s always had a crush on you. Just about everyone knows.”

“Maybe he used to, but he must be over that. I was gone for years.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The clerk’s lips pursed. “Haven’t you read any of his books?”

“The science fiction? Not in a long time.”

“And the romances. He writes them under the name Olivia Devaine. You’ve been missing out.”

The blonde’s gaze skipped sideways toward Mike. He bent his head over the plate display. “Oh, dear,” she said quietly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

The clerk beamed. She was enjoying herself. “I’ve gotta tell ya. Every single one of his heroines bears a striking resemblance to you.”

The woman groaned. “Are you certain you’re not reading too much between the lines?”

“The latest one’s titled Marianne’s Homecoming. See for yourself.” The clerk pulled a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter and tossed it onto the glass. “You can have it, if you want. I’ve finished. It’s all about a lady executive named Marianne who returns to her hometown to stop an evil developer from bulldozing her family homestead. The hero is an investigative reporter.”

With some hesitation, the blonde picked up the book. “That’s not so very much like—”

“His name is Tolliver. Rand Tolliver.”

“Please. Stop.” She laughed. “Are there love scenes? I won’t be able to look Oliver in the eye if there are steamy love scenes.”

Colored lights winked off the lenses of the clerk’s oversize glasses as she wagged her head. “There are a few kisses, but nothing explicit, darn it. Oliver’s books never get too sexy. He closes the bedroom door, as they say.” She hunkered down, her elbows on the counter. “If it wasn’t for Dolly getting him liquored up at the Kiwanis picnic and taking him out to her van, he’d probably still be a virgin.”

The blonde blinked. “That’s old gossip. And private. You don’t know what happened.”

“I know that Dolly was hoping she’d get preggie so Oliver would marry her. She was certain he was rich, being a famous author, you know.”

The blonde’s head snapped back. Her cheeks had turned hot pink, but her expression was glacial. She yanked a fountain pen set from the display and set the case on the glass with a distinct click. “I’ll take this. I’m sure a writer can always use a new pen.”

“Oh. Um, hey, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” The blonde reached for her purse. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not much in the mood for gossip these days, if you know what I mean.”

Mike gripped one of the plates. He didn’t know what she meant, but his curiosity was certainly roused. Suddenly he found himself hoping that the blonde wasn’t secretly pining for that Oliver guy. Shouldn’t matter to him when he was here for only seven days…except that seven days seemed a much shorter stay than it had fifteen minutes ago.

Christmas in Christmas might not be so bleak after all.

He walked toward the register with the plate and the card. The blonde’s head dipped forward while she dropped coins into a zippered compartment of her wallet. She took her bagged item from the clerk and tucked that, the paperback book and the wallet inside her leather bag, not looking up until Mike stood right beside her.

“Thanks,” she said to the clerk. Finally she glanced at Mike. He was six-one, but she was only an inch or two shorter in her stacked boot heels. A lovely smile flitted across her face as she nodded at him. Her nose was aquiline, with bold cheekbones set high in well-rounded cheeks. Her eyes were a dazzling blue that took his breath away. “Merry Christmas.”

He made a raspy sound. “Merry Christmas.”

She turned with a hitch of her purse strap and a swirl of the nubby coat, yanking her red hat over her head as she departed. The bell chimed when she opened the door. A snow flurry swept inside, accompanying the blast of cold air.

Mike stared after her, even when she was gone. His pulse ticked like the ignition of a gas burner. Heat crawled up his throat. There’s something about her. Something very merry.

“Didja find what you were looking for?”

“Uh, yes.” He handed his selections to the clerk. “I’ll take this and the card. Gift-wrapped, please.”

“Sure thing. Let me get you a box.”

Mike waited impatiently while the clerk boxed the plate and carefully wrapped the purchase in paper covered with candy canes. She chatted him up, managing to establish that he was only visiting and that the TV6 weatherman was forecasting a blizzard for Christmas Eve, three days hence.

“You mean this isn’t a blizzard?” Mike asked absentmindedly while he fingered a couple of twenties. He’d pulled out his billfold to have payment ready even before the clerk had totaled the charges. He was being ridiculous. The blonde would be long gone by the time he reached the street.

But it was a small town. He could run in to her again.

The clerk chuckled while she rang him up. “You’re not from around here, are you? This is a flurry.”

“The only snow I’ve experienced was on a ski holiday in the mountains.” His family had once been big on skiing vacations, but that had stopped when he was seventeen. He hadn’t been back to the mountains since.

“Merry Christmas to you,” the clerk called after him as he strode toward the door with his coat hanging open.

“And you,” he returned.

The street was empty. Michael buttoned up, put on his gloves and checked his watch. Only five-thirty and the wan sun had completely disappeared. The streetlights had come on, illuminating the flakes that filtered out of the vast charcoal darkness above. He was stuck in a snow globe.

He tilted back his head. More of the snowflakes melted on his face and lips, but this time he didn’t mind.

Let it snow.

A car pulled out of a small parking lot adjacent to the grocery store. Headlights cut across Mike’s face, blinding him for an instant. Laughter rang out from the tavern as its door opened and closed. She might be there, toasting the holidays.

He was about to step over the snowdrift at the curb when he thought of the grocery store instead. I should get wine. And chocolates for the sisters. There’ll still be time to look for the blonde.

The store was named Ed’s Fine Foods and it was chockablock with overstocked shelves. The aisles were only wide enough for one cart at a time to pass among paths narrowed further by freestanding displays holding mismatched assortments of goods. Mike brushed the snow off his shoulders and stepped over a dirty puddle just inside the glass doors. He passed up the cart to take a handbasket and began to wend his way through the aisles in search of the liquor department.

A flash of red caught his attention. He made an abrupt turn, nearly smashing into a cardboard stand of chocolate syrup in squeeze bottles. By the time he reached the next aisle, she was wheeling her cart around the other end. He saw the nubby coat and the red scarf, both of them hanging loose, and dark blue jeans tucked into her stylish leather boots. She had long legs.

The wheels of her cart squeaked. He listened, sidling along the aisle until he was opposite her. The shelves were quite short. When he reached up and took down a box of bran flakes, he could peer over the top into the next aisle. She was reading the label of a bottle of champagne. With a sigh, she put it back and selected a different bottle for her cart before glancing over her shoulder.

Mike slid the bran flakes into their slot.

She looked up when he strolled into the aisle. He smiled. “We meet again.”

“That happens often here. It’s a small town.” She pulled her coat closed, put both hands on her cart and nudged it over a couple of inches.

“I’m looking for a bottle of wine. What would you suggest?”

“There’s not much choice. If you wanted beer—” She waved at the vast array. Towers of twenty-four-packs extended the section into the corner of the store.

“No, I need a good bottle of wine.”

Her eyebrows made two precise golden-brown arches. “Trying to impress somebody?”

“An entire family.”

“Then you should go top shelf.”

He scanned the stickers and took down the highest priced bottle. Twenty bucks. Not that impressive. “I’ll get champagne, too.”

Reaching for the bottle she’d returned to the shelf, he grazed her arm. She inched away, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. Her expression was thoughtful. “Big spender,” she said with a gently teasing grin, before turning away and rolling her cart toward the opposite end of the aisle.

Mike’s tongue felt unusually thick and slow. He still hadn’t introduced himself, but he couldn’t continue following her. Too obvious, even in a small store. He wandered the aisles, bypassing a sale on mixed nuts and waxed baking cups as he looked for the candy section.

A red mitten lay abandoned on the floor. The bottles in his basket clinked as he set it down to pick up the mitten. Smiling to himself, he turned it over in his hand. Soft and fuzzy, slightly damp.

He caught himself before he caressed the soft wool between his fingers. Sap. Embarrassed for himself, he thrust the mitten into his pocket. After the debacle with Denise, he wasn’t planning to be in the market for a good, long while.

Except, technically, he was.

He loosened the scarf around his throat. The store felt too warm and close. Steamy. At least he’d found the sweets. He examined rows of chocolate bars and bagged candy that sold two for a dollar, looking for something, well, impressive. A small decorative gold tin of Whitman’s Samplers was the best he could do, so he dropped several into his cart and headed for the checkout.

Wheels squeaked nearby. He sped up, making certain their paths intersected at the checkout lane. There was only one lane, and a woman with a cart filled with the makings for a holiday dinner—including a frozen turkey—had arrived first.

Mike lifted the turkey and a ten-pound sack of potatoes onto the conveyor belt, then turned and gestured at the blonde. Her cart stood between them. “Ladies first.”

“No, you go. I have more items.”

“I’m in no rush.”

She nodded and moved past him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood directly behind her, looking at the straight, silky hair that brushed her collar. He closed his eyes and inhaled. How long had it been since he’d held a woman? Since he’d known the comfort of a soft, warm, curved body, a sweet voice and gentle presence?

He shook his head, dismayed that he could be seduced so easily, even after almost a year of virtual monkhood. First had come the long deployment, then the Dear John letter that had left him certain he’d never get serious with a woman again, let alone romanticize over a complete stranger.

One failed attempt was enough for him. At first marrying Denise had seemed like a good idea. She had all the qualities he hadn’t known he was looking for in a wife, until she and Shannon had kindly pointed that out and convinced him to propose. Unfortunately, after they’d been together for more than a year with the wedding still on hold, his former fiancée had nagged and griped more often than not. The deployment to the Gulf had been the death knell to an engagement already on life support.

Many times since the breakup, he’d wondered why he’d done nothing, even though he’d recognized Denise’s gradual withdrawal. And why, after the first sting of receiving her letter, he’d been more relieved than sad. More regretful than wounded.

Reminded of all that, he deliberately looked away from the woman standing in front of him. He told himself that his interest in her was only a pleasant distraction.

After a minute, he yanked the mitten from his pocket. “I almost forgot. You dropped this.”

She turned halfway. “Yes, that’s mine.” She took the mitten, matching it with the mate. She smoothed them between long, elegant fingers with polished nails. “Thank you again.”

“I’m Mike, by the way. Mike Kavanaugh.”

Her mouth opened, then closed with a little huh of a smile. She glanced into his basket. “I thought you might be.”

She recognized his name? Mike was going to ask how that could be, even in a small town, but she’d turned and begun placing her grocery items on the belt.

He studied her selections. Fancy stuff, fit for a more sophisticated holiday than he’d have expected, now that he’d seen the down-home, humble nature of the town. She had a loaf of Italian bread. Bunches of herbs. Fresh strawberries that must have been flown in. Jars of pistachios and almonds. Anchovies. Capers. Olives, radishes and two kinds of specialty cheese. Plus a bag of minimarshmallows and the bottle, which turned out to be sparkling ginger ale.

Marshmallows, anchovies and ginger ale? She had eclectic tastes.

She noticed his interest and paused with a jar of maraschino cherries in her hand. “My name is Mary.”

He crinkled his eyes at her, despite the previous decision to keep his interest detached. “As in Mary and Joseph? That’s appropriate for a town called Christmas.”

“The villagers do take the name seriously,” she said with a wry look.

“Maybe I’ll catch the mood.”

Her head cocked. “You’re not imbued with the holiday spirit?”

The question made him recognize the loneliness of being out of step, particularly during the holidays. He was sorry for it, much more than when Nicky had pointed out the same. “Not lately, I’m afraid.”

“Stick around. Christmas will work its magic on you.”

“The town or the holiday?”

She smiled. “They go hand in hand.”

She wrote a check for her groceries, then paused to put on her hat and mittens and button up her coat. She lifted one of her bags and reached for the other.

“Hold on,” he said, liberating another couple of twenties from his wallet. “I’ll help you carry those to your car.”

She cradled one of the paper bags to her front while he took the second and accompanied her to the door. The wind blew viciously, tearing the handle from her grip. The door banged against the wall. He pushed up close behind her and caught the door before it swung back into her face.

She sidestepped. “Do you need a ride? My car’s around the corner.”

“Thanks, but I’m being picked up.”

They moved carefully along a sidewalk that was bumpy with packed ice and snow, then loaded the grocery bags into the backseat of her car, a red Mazda with a plump Santa suction-cupped to a side window. The license plate read FALALA.

Mary’s eyes were slitted against the wind. She scraped hair out of her mouth and made a spitting sound. “I’ll see you around then, Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.”

He wanted to ask where and when, but stopped himself. “Maybe that can be arranged. I’m here for a week.”

She hesitated, looking at him with puckered lips. Her eyes held a secret—something fanciful, as if she were playing with him. She seemed about to speak, but changed her mind and got in to the car instead, easing herself behind the wheel. She tugged at the coat, which kept her bundled as furry as a bear.

He briefly imagined what her body might be like beneath it. Long-limbed but curvy. For all the willowy, athletic elegance, there was a solidness about her, too. He sensed they would match up well.

Snow swirled. Wind whistled. He could delay no longer. With reluctance, he said goodbye and closed the door.

She smiled at him through the frosty glass and started the engine. He stepped back, oddly forlorn as the car pulled away, until he realized what she’d said.

Lieutenant Commander Kavanaugh.

After an instant of revelation, he gave a short shout of a laugh. Some secret!

CHAPTER TWO

“NICKY!”

“Mer!”

Meredith York wrapped her younger brother in a bear hug and held on for dear life, having learned what the phrase truly meant over the past few years of their separation, particularly during his most recent deployment at sea. Her heart squeezed itself into a tight knot, then released as a wave of pure relief rolled through her. She let out a deep breath. At last.

She gripped his shoulders. “You’re really here! You made it home for Christmas.”

“A promise is a promise, Merrylegs.” Nicky tilted his head back. He bumped their noses. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She hadn’t expected to be so sentimental, but Shannon and Mom were watching with red-rimmed eyes and watery smiles. In the background, Nicky’s sons bounced off the couch with excitement.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Mom sent me out for provisions.”

Grace York dabbed the corners of her eyes with her apron, then retrieved the bags of groceries Meredith had dropped when she’d greeted Nicky. “My goodness. What’s this? Goat cheese? Capers? What are we going to do with capers? I hope you didn’t forget the marshmallows.”

Shannon, Nicky’s wife, had joined the siblings’ embrace. She leaned her cheek against her husband’s. “Skip and Georgie have their hearts set on church window cookies.”

Meredith unwound herself. She rubbed her eyes. “Of course I remembered the marshmallows, Mom.”

“Roquefort and goat cheese,” Grace clucked as she rummaged through the groceries.

“I thought I’d make something different for tonight—hors d’oeuvres.”

“Hors d’oeuvres. Fancy! Who are we trying to impress?”

Meredith flushed.

“She’s got city taste now, Grammadear.” Charlie York, the clan patriarch who’d remained fully involved in all activities since his retirement, stepped into the foyer with his sleepy granddaughter draped over his shoulder. At nine months old, Kathlyn Grace was the newest and much-adored addition to the family. “Don’t fuss at the girl.”

Meredith rolled her eyes as she slipped out of her coat and hung it on one of the wall hooks. She was thirty-six. Her hand went to her waist—her disappearing waist—as she bent to knock the snow off her boots. Certainly no longer a girl.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked Nicky. Without considering why, she chose to keep her meeting with Michael Kavanaugh to herself for a while longer.

“At the Cheer. I’m going now to pick him up.” Nick nuzzled his wife’s ear. “Want to come along, honey?”

Shannon glowed. Seeing their happiness brought both thankfulness and a pang of longing to Meredith’s heart. For more than a decade, she’d been satisfied with her thriving career as a human resources director for a large financial services firm, the high-rise condo she’d bought on Chicago’s Gold Coast and her lengthy live-in relationship with Greg Conway, a financial analyst she’d met at work. Then, suddenly in the past year, everything had changed.

“Hurry back,” Grace said. The slender, silver-haired homemaker was as active as her husband, involved in many church and community activities, in addition to her regular book club meetings and t’ai chi classes. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“It’s your favorite,” Shannon said as she and Nicky put on their coats and boots. “Pot roast and mashed potatoes.”

He moaned. “I can’t wait. I’ve been dreaming about Mom’s cooking.”

Shannon paused while wrapping a scarf around her dark brown hair. “What about mine?”

He grinned wolfishly as she preceded him out the door. “You’re in the other dreams.”

Meredith gave Nicky another hug before he left, then stood in the farmhouse doorway, watching the couple drive down the long, dark driveway, until her mother complained that she was letting in the cold air.

I want that. Merry shut the door and absentmindedly straightened the jumble of the kids’ snow boots, hats and insulated mittens. There, Mom, I admitted it. I wish I was married.

She’d lived with Greg for nearly seven years and had sworn up and down that a marriage certificate wasn’t important to her. That had seemed honest, at the time. What she hadn’t understood was how much the present situation would turn her previous perceptions topsy-turvy.

But would she marry Greg now, if he came back to her on bended knee? Definitely not. That ship had sailed. Only her mother still clung to the hope that there’d be a last-second wedding to save the day.

“Auntie Merry, Auntie Merry!” Skip and Georgie, her rambunctious nephews, burst into the foyer. “Grammadear said you’d help us make the church window cookies.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have the hors d’oeuvres to do.”

Georgie tilted his face upward. He was six years old, blond and freckled like his older brother. “What’s ‘oardurves’?”

She ruffled his hair. “Nibbly bits before dinner. Dolled up veggies and bread.”

“Like crackers spread with Cheez Whiz,” Skip said with authority. He was three years older than his brother and terribly sure of himself. With his father away on a sea tour, then on shore duty for the past six months, Skip had become serious about his role as man of the family. “And olives.”

“Can I eat them?” Skip asked.

“You can try one,” Merry agreed. The anchovy-and-pepper mix she’d planned for the bruschetta was sure to be too spicy for the boys. What had she been thinking? Her family was accustomed to plain home cooking, not the five-star cuisine she’d discovered in Chicago’s best restaurants. They’d be baffled by amuse bouche and dumbstruck by dim sum. Her parents shared their insulated community’s general distrust of visitors with sophisticated ways and a taste for change.

But I’m not a visitor. Meredith herded the boys to the kitchen. I’m here to stay.

When heart troubles had prompted her father’s retirement at the same time her relationship with Greg was cracking like an overboiled egg, she’d returned to take over the family business. Thus far, every improvement she’d wanted to implement had been a struggle for control. Her parents had run the York Tree Farm since their wedding forty years ago, with Charlie overseeing the Christmas tree operation and Grace managing Evergreen, the seasonal gift and sandwich shop that served the cut-your-own-tree customers who began showing up in November.

Meredith glanced into the family room, where her father jiggled the baby on his knee while she goggled at the sparkling ornaments and blinking lights of the Christmas tree. In the kitchen, her mother hummed a carol to herself while seasoning a pot of frozen green beans.

They’ll learn to adjust. Meredith smoothed the drape of her oversize cable-knit sweater. So will I.

After the elation of Nicky’s return, her mood had turned into melancholy. Although surrounded by family, there were times that she felt very alone.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the pot roast was out of the oven and the hors d’oeuvres well underway. Meredith heard the stomping of boots in the foyer. She hastily pulled a pan of bread slices from beneath the broiler. “It’s called bruschetta, Mom.”

Grace flapped a pot holder at the wisp of smoke rising from a charred crust as if it were a spark from Mrs. O’Leary’s lantern. “I know what bruschetta is, Miss Meredith. I watch the Food Network. All I’m saying is we don’t need more carbs. I already have the potatoes and the rolls. Your father’s diet…”

“I’ll keep him away from the hors d’oeuvres.” The cream and butter in the mashed potatoes was more of a concern, but Merry held her tongue. She took the pot holder and nudged her mother toward the doorway. “Sounds like Nicky’s back. Go say hi to our guest.”

Grace removed her apron. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Merry added chopped parsley to her anchovy mix. “As soon as I’m finished here.”

Her mother paused significantly. “Nicky’s pilot friend is single.”

“I know, Mom.” He’s also six feet of gorgeous, clean-cut masculinity. Don’t embarrass him. The man’s only on leave for a week. He’s not looking to get involved with…” Merry gestured at herself. No other explanation was necessary.

Grace’s face instantly clouded. She hurried from the kitchen without another word.

“Kryptonite,” Merry muttered. She couldn’t blame the woman for being old school, growing up as she had with strictly religious parents. And the wagons would certainly be circled if criticism came from outside the family. Even so, her mother’s disapproval did make Merry feel self-conscious. She couldn’t help but think of herself as Grace York’s cross to bear.

“Merry,” Nicky called from the family room, where the meeting and greeting was going on. “Come and see Mike. I want to show off my prettiest sister.”

Meredith brushed off her hands and went to join the group. Her nerve endings were jingling and jangling like a triangle chorus, but she folded her arms across her midsection and put on a serene smile. She glanced at Nicky first, ignoring Michael Kavanaugh’s presence. “You say that only because Noelle isn’t home from college yet.”

“Both my girls are lookers. They get it from their mother.” Charlie put his arm around Merry’s shoulders and urged her forward into the crowded room when she’d have rather hovered in the background. “Meredith, hon, this is Lieutenant Commander Michael Kavanaugh, ace pilot of the Blue Knight squadron. He flies a Super-Hornet, an F/A 18E. They call it a Rhino.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m not an ace.”

“Not yet,” Nicky put in.

There was no more delaying it. Merry pulled in a deep breath and looked up at the handsome Navy aviator. Her voice cracked, but she managed a placid, “Hello, Michael. How do you do?”

Then she put out her hand, waiting for the moment when the pleasure that had sprung to Mike’s face at the sight of her would disintegrate into polite withdrawal as he got a second, closer look.

That didn’t happen.

MIKE TOOK THE BLONDE’S hand and used it to pull her closer for a polite kiss on the cheek. “Fool me once,” he whispered in her ear before retreating a few inches. He winked, then stepped away. She seemed defensive, not wanting to be crowded. “Nice to meet you, Meredith York.”

Her smile wavered. “Call me Merry.”

“As in Merry Christmas, or Mary and Joseph?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “How could I have forgotten that the Yorks are named by theme? Merry and Nicholas—though he’s no saint—and what was the other sister’s name again?”

“Noelle.”

“Ah.”

“Corny, I know, but blame my parents.” She nodded her head at the beaming couple. “They’re the town’s unofficial Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, in charge of all things Christmas.”

“Not even unofficial,” Nicky said. His baby daughter was cradled in the nook of one arm. “I must have mentioned that my dad plays Santa at all the town functions.”

Mike looked at Charlie. “Now I see why.” Nicky’s father was five-ten or so, and stockily built. Beneath a crop of gray hair, his face was flushed with good cheer and vigor. He could easily pull off an authentic “Ho, ho, ho.”

Charlie winked as he tugged at his full gray beard, which was liberally streaked with white. “I only grow it for the holidays.”

“But Grampa’s not the real Santa Claus,” said Georgie. “He’s an actor.”

Mike caught the sly look that crossed Skip’s face. He remembered informing his own younger brother of the truth about Santa Claus, after he’d put together hearsay with the hard evidence of the pile of presents they’d found stashed in their parents’ closet. The five-year-old had been inconsolable for days, and Mike had been forced to give up a soccer game and endure a two-hour wait in line to visit Santa at the mall. After that, he’d kept the news about the Tooth Fairy to himself.

He squatted beside the boys. “Skip, it’s been more than a year since I saw you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you now?”

“Nine.”

“That’s pretty grown up. What about your brother?”

“He’s only six.”

“And you’ve been taking good care of him and Kathlyn while your dad’s away?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”

“Well done. I know your father’s proud.” Mike leaned a little closer. “I have a younger brother, too. He still remembers every holiday we spent together, but especially the visits from Santa Claus. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

Mike clapped the boy’s shoulder and stood. The other adults were talking about sleeping assignments and where the baby’s pacifier had gone, but Merry had rested her hands on Georgie’s shoulders and nestled him against her front. “You have a brother?” she asked softly.

“Steve. A civil engineer. He was in Mozambique, building a dam, the last I heard.”

“And your parents?”

“My father passed away years ago. My mother is on a holiday cruise with her second husband.” Mike quirked his lips into a smile. Casual, to show he wasn’t as alone and lonely as it seemed…as he was. “Nicky took pity on me and hauled me along to join your family for the holidays.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah?” He wondered what else she’d heard.

Merry’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, shoot, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He laughed. “Never mind. Every Christmas party needs a poor little match boy.”

Georgie had become restless. She gave the boy an extra hug and let him go, then clasped and unclasped her empty hands. “I’m—we’re all very glad you could join us.” She glanced somewhat warily at her mother. “One extra is no trouble, not when we usually have a half-dozen ‘extras.’ You’ll see what a circus it is around here over the next several days. Our Christmas dinner is bedlam.”

Her eyes were bright blue flames that he wanted to stare into until the image burned in his retinas. Instead, he glanced around the room, absorbing the comforting normalcy of the festive scene. A fire crackled in a potbellied woodstove. The furnishings were overstuffed and well-used. Colonial-patterned wallpaper clashed with the rug, while green and red holiday decorations added another layer to the visual chaos. The thick branches of the blinking tree reached to the ceiling. Already a large number of gifts had been placed beneath it.

“I haven’t had a family Christmas in years,” he said.

“You’ll get one now,” Merry replied, having followed his gaze. She was still fiddling with her fingers, holding them laced against her bulky green sweater. Her face was framed by a crisp white collar and the pale gleam of her hair.

The nervousness didn’t suit her. She had a Madonna-like quality—gracious and gentle.

Except for the intense, burning eyes.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, and meant it.

She smiled politely before turning her head aside. He couldn’t figure out her bashfulness. She’d seemed self-conscious since they’d officially met, but she hadn’t been like that at all earlier. What had changed? Being around her family? That was more the reaction of a high school girl.

“Who will show Michael up to his room?” Grace ignored the boys, who jumped to volunteer. “Merry, how about you?”

For an instant, she looked horrified. Then she dropped her lashes and politely refused the invitation. “Let Skip and Georgie do it. I’ll get the hors d’oeuvres.” She took the bottles Mike had brought and slipped from the room.

Mike found himself herded upstairs by Charlie and his grandsons. They gave him a small, simply furnished room under the eaves on the spacious farmhouse’s third floor. There was a bathroom next door, and also another guest room that Charlie said Noelle would use when she arrived, since the boys had taken over her old room on the second floor.

Mike set down his sea bag, the large green Navy issued duffel. Although he’d shared many tight quarters aboard ship, close family living arrangements were something different.

The Yorks’s house was filled to bursting. When Nicky had been shipped out, his wife and children had gone to live with his parents for the duration so Shannon wouldn’t be alone with the boys during her pregnancy. Kathlyn had been born while Nicky was deployed, so this was only the second time he’d been able to spend a significant amount of time with her.

While Mike was no family man, he recognized that nothing was tougher than missing the first months of your child’s life. A Dear John letter couldn’t touch that loss.

“Where does Merry stay?” he asked the boys while unzipping his duffel. Charlie had excused himself to follow his nose to the kitchen and check on dinner.

“She has her own house,” Skip said.

“It’s by the tree farm.” Anticipation glistened in Georgie’s eyes when Mike pulled out three wrapped boxes.

He wanted to ask more about Merry, wanted to know everything, but he stopped himself. He had six more days.

“Why don’t you two take these presents and put them beneath the tree?” The boys seized the gifts and Mike called, “Don’t shake them too hard,” as they galloped down the stairs.

He sat on the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. A day ago, he’d been stationed in San Diego, the aircraft carrier’s home port, prepping for the next deployment. Sunshine and beaches contrasting with the heat of the tarmac and the blast of afterburn. Now this, a cold, white world pocketed with bursts of color and warmth.

His system was in shock.

He held his head in his hands, resisting the unexpected pull to take out Denise’s goodbye letter. Hell, he’d read the thing a hundred times over the past months. Maybe more. He no longer missed his fiancée. He was way past that.

There was something else that tortured him, that wouldn’t let him throw the letter away.

He took the frayed envelope from a pocket in his shaving kit and withdrew the letter. One measly sheet of paper. The end of a serious commitment should need more words.

Or not, when the engagement had already withered away to nothing.

Dear Michael…

Music from down below stopped him from continuing. He went to the door to listen. “Deck the Halls.” Of course. The Yorks would play holiday tunes. They probably sang carols, too.

In fact, as he listened, a woman’s voice joined the recorded music. Pure as a bell. He wondered if the singer was Merry.

The letter was crumpled in his hand. Throw it away, said his inner voice. What good’s it doing you?

But he couldn’t let go, not yet. He smoothed the crinkles and returned it to the envelope, then the envelope to its slot in his shaving kit. Moving faster, he undid a couple of buttons and yanked his shirt off over his head. Suddenly he wanted to be downstairs with Nicky’s family, instead of alone and moping over promises broken long ago.

He took the kit and went into the tiny bathroom, having to duck to use the facilities that were fitted beneath the slanted ceiling. He washed and quickly ran an electric shaver over his jaw. Deodorant. A touch of cologne. The pit of his stomach hollow, his senses on point.

Like getting ready for a date.

He left the shaving kit on the ledge of the sink and turned to go.

The staircase off the hallway creaked. He heard a footfall on the landing. “Um, Mike?” said a female voice.

After a moment’s hesitation, he went back and grabbed the leather kit bag. The damn letter. He didn’t want Merry to find it, even though one word from her, one meaningful smile, and he expected that he’d gladly forget it ever existed.

Outside, he almost bumped into Merry. She was bent at the waist, canted sideways, peering in through the partly open door to the guest room.

She jumped at his touch. “Oh! I’m sorry.” Color rose in her cheeks. “I wasn’t spying. That is, Mom sent me up to get you.” Her gaze dropped to his bare chest, then shot upward like an elevator, right up to the ceiling. “But take your time.” She turned away before he could respond, hastily removing herself from his half-naked presence, her boot heels clip-clopping on the wood steps. “We’re having hors d’oeuvres.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

He tossed the kit into his sea bag and pulled on a fresh shirt, smiling to himself as he tucked in the tails. He knew a little about Merry. She was older than Nicky by a year or two, and had been living in Chicago away from her family for years. An intelligent, successful woman, not lacking in experience. She wasn’t likely to be thrown by the sight of a man’s bare chest unless she had a particular interest in the man, and even then, he’d surprised her into the fumbling reaction.

Mike ducked to gaze into the mirror over the bureau, donned in gay apparel and suddenly bubbling with good cheer and a rousing interest that went quite a bit beyond the gentlemanly anticipation he should be feeling.

He touched his smooth jaw. Fa la la la la.

CHAPTER THREE

SHANNON PRESSED her shoulder into Merry’s. “What do you think of Mike?”

“He seems like a nice man.”

“That’s all?”

Merry looked into her sister-in-law’s eyes. She’d known Shannon all of her life, but they’d become much closer since both had returned to Christmas, sans the men in their lives. “Don’t tell Mom?”

Shannon shook her head.

“He’s…” Resist as she might, Merry’s gaze was drawn across the table to Mike’s face. He was handsome in a classic way, like an actor starring as a clean-cut war hero in a black-and-white movie, but it was his air of confidence that she found especially appealing. She’d always liked self-assured men. Even a little brash, as long as they could back up the attitude and didn’t let it turn into arrogance.

“He’s the entire package. Just about perfect.” She dropped her gaze to her plate and stabbed a forkful of mashed potatoes. “I’m not sure that I can trust a perfect man.”

“Greg wasn’t perfect.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Greg,” Merry insisted, but of course it did. Greg had seemed perfect to her for a very long time. She’d believed in him and their life together. Believed it much longer than she should have.

Shannon inclined her head, keeping to a low tone so they wouldn’t be overheard. “They call Mike Captain America, you know. Cappy is his call sign.” Nicky’s was Boots, shortened from his original Father Christmas nickname.

“That’s what I mean,” Merry said. “He’s too perfect. I am not.”

“Yeah, but Mike went through his own breakup, remember? You’ve got that in common.”

Shannon spoke as if that was a good thing to share, but how would she know? Nicky had been her high-school sweetheart. She’d never suffered a broken heart.

Merry shrugged. “Rebounding balls bounce off each other,” she said thinly.

Her father’s voice rang out from the head of the table, stalling the dinner chatter. “Merry, Shannon. Are you girls whispering about my Christmas present again?”

Merry’s gaze snapped off Mike’s face. She hadn’t felt so awkward around her family since high school. No, even then she’d been relatively confident.

She had to go all the way back to junior high. Her first serious crush on a kid named Jason, who’d been a head shorter than her. Nicky had teased her without mercy. The family’s enthusiasm had mortified her when Jason had arrived with his dad to escort her to an eighth-grade dance, with her mom snapping photos, her dad joking about first kisses and Nicky and Noelle making smooching noises behind Merry’s back.

She smiled to herself. She hadn’t thought of those days in years. The move back home had brought up a lot of old memories.

Shannon answered Charlie’s question. “We’re talking about sports.”

“Sports?” Grace echoed with a genteel but dubious air.

Shannon smiled blamelessly. “Basketball.”

“Our Merry was the MVP of her high-school class,” Charlie said to Mike. “Basketball, volleyball and track. Her teams went to the regionals.”

“Oh, Dad. That was ages ago. No one but you remembers.”

Mike eyed Merry approvingly. “Do you still play?”

“I run, some. I golf during the summer.”

“You look athletic.”

Was he kidding? Everyone had stopped eating. She couldn’t tell if there was an actual hush in the room, or if it was only her own ears that weren’t functioning. Her voice did sound far away when she answered. “Not so much, lately.”

Mike nodded as if he’d noticed nothing out of the ordinary. “There’s really a lot of snow here. Do any of you ski?” Either he was oblivious, or extremely polite.

Merry let the conversation slide by. Her mother’s face was pink. Shannon gave Merry a sympathetic squeeze before turning the other way to link hands with Nicky under the table. The men talked about the weight room they used aboard their aircraft carrier, while Charlie reminisced about learning Ping-Pong in ’Nam during his own tour of duty. Then he started in on his ski-jumping stories, which could end the dinner conversation if no one interrupted.

Merry told herself to relax.

“We built our own ski jump on Sawhorse Hill, a rickety contraption made of old barn boards and cedar poles. It leaned to the left. Climbing the ladder to the top was taking your life in your hands.” Charlie eyed the last piece of beef on his plate, then reached for the gravy boat. “I volunteered to make the first jump.”

“More guts than brains,” Grace said fondly, as she always did at this point in the story.

“A trait of the York males,” Shannon added, making Nicky give a raspy chuckle.

Perhaps a trait of the females also. Merry frequently felt as if she was teetering on the brink of a scary adventure, with no one to catch her when she fell.

She looked at Mike. He was watching her father, nodding along with the story. Skip and Georgie sat on either side of him, lured there by Mike’s intervention when the boys had started fighting over who got to sit next to their dad. He’d called them his dinner service copilots.

Diplomatic, decent, dependable. Not to mention dishy. Merry felt slightly feverish whenever she thought about catching Mike shirtless, and since she thought of that every five minutes, well, no wonder she’d grown so warm.

She tugged at her collar while her gaze rose inexorably from the surface of the table. Yes, he was still there. Captain America, a practically perfect man. Her unexpected gift for the holidays.

Who’d arrived in her life at the worst possible time.

“So there I was at the top of the makeshift ski jump, on a couple of badly warped skis,” Charlie continued. “The ramp was as bumpy as a backwoods road beneath the snow we’d packed onto it. Someone gave a push to get me started.”

Charlie surveyed the table, in his element. The only thing he liked more than telling family stories to a new audience was gravy. His gaze fastened on Mike. “Do you know ski jumping?”

“Sure. Like the Olympics?”

“Well.” Charlie chuckled. “We young pups thought so at the time. After dinner, Grammadear will take out the photo albums. There are a few shots of me in the glory days.”

Shannon nudged Merry. She mouthed “Help.” Dragging out the albums and the same old stories would lead to an entire evening of family time.

Merry nodded. She remembered well. Some fathers kept their daughters’ boyfriends in line with threats. Her dad did it with endless storytelling until the boyfriend du jour went away out of sheer boredom.

“What happened then, Grandpa?” Skip made a swooping gesture. “Did you fly through the air with the greatest of ease?”

Charlie put his fists beneath his chin. His shoulders hunched. Georgie and Skip hunched with him. “I started down the hill. Picking up speed. The spectators were shouting. ‘Jump, Charlie, jump!’”

Merry looked tenderly at Georgie, who was entranced, his eyes like glass marbles. Mike was doing the same. Their gazes intersected. They exchanged smiles and the heat flushed through her again, only this time she wasn’t thinking about Mike’s physique, but what a natural inclination to fatherhood he seemed to have. He was the type of man—strong, quietly confident, even heroic—that any woman would like to have as the father of her children.

Hormones. Merry clutched the napkin in her lap. Even considering that Christmas was the season for miracles, she was getting carried away.

“Snow was flying,” Charlie continued. “The boards rattled beneath my skis. One of them popped up beneath me as I hit the end of the ramp.”

Georgie gasped.

“I shoved off with all of my might, snapped my arms out and cranked the skis up to my chin as I leaned into the jump.” Charlie extended his arms and did an airplane maneuver over the crowded table. “I must have flown for a mile.” He winked at the grown-ups. “The spectators cheered. And then—” he focused on the boys “—I dropped out of the sky.”

“Bam,” said Skip, slapping a fist into his palm.

“I hit hard, you betcha. Nearly bit my tongue in half. One of my skis snapped like a twig and I went head over heels.” He drew circles through the air. “Cartwheels, I did. All the way across the landing zone.”

“Were you hurt, Grandpa?”

“Nope. A snowdrift saved me when I landed in it headfirst.” Charlie’s chest expanded. “I set the hill record on that very first jump and nobody ever did beat it.”

Skip’s eyes narrowed with skepticism. “How far did you fly?”

“Eh. The exact number’s in dispute because we didn’t have a tape measure. About…” Charlie inched his hands apart like a fisherman with a tall tale. “Forty feet. Give or take.”

“Wow,” Georgie breathed.

“More giving than taking, is what I’ve been told, my dear.” Grace rose. “Are we having second helpings? Thirds? No? Then, who wants to help me clear?”

Both Mike and Merry started to get up, but Shannon shot to her feet, dragging Nicky with her. “We’ll do it. You sit down, Grammadear.” She handed her husband the meat platter and potato bowl and swept up several dinner plates, escaping through the swinging door between the dining room and kitchen.

A short silence settled among those left at the table.

Skip’s expression was solemn. “Mom and Dad want to kiss in the kitchen.”

Merry pressed her lips together, but she caught Georgie’s eyes. They giggled.

“Silly,” Grace said with a bemused smile.

“I already caught Mom and Dad kissing on the staircase,” Skip informed them. “They didn’t even have the mistletoe.”

Mike straightened. “There’s mistletoe?”

“You rascal.” Charlie chuffed. “Look out, ladies! I know how these jet jocks operate.” He waved a finger at Mike. “Don’t even think about stealing a kiss from my pretty gal. You hear me, Grammadear? I’m giving orders. You’re to stay away from this one.”

Grace’s eyes shined behind her bifocals. “Oh, Charlie.”

“Uncle Mike can kiss Aunt Merry,” Georgie said.

“No, he can’t,” Skip corrected. “Because—” “No one’s kissing me,” Merry interrupted. She laughed awkwardly. “I’ve sworn off mistletoe for the duration.”

Mike studied her from across the table. “Got a boyfriend?”

She gathered silverware. “No.”

“She’s gonna be a single—”

“Skip. That’s quite enough, young man,” Grace interrupted smoothly despite the high color in her cheeks. “You and Georgie take the rest of the plates into the kitchen, please.”

“Knock first,” Charlie joked.

Merry couldn’t bring herself to stand, not when Mike was looking at her so closely. Curiosity was written across his face. She’d begun to believe that he hadn’t noticed what seemed so obvious to her—obvious and slightly embarrassing. She was her mother’s daughter.

“Woodstove needs stocking,” Charlie said with a harrumph. “Let’s go into the family room. We’ll get out those picture albums I mentioned.”

“Sounds good,” Merry said, making a motion to rise. Any distraction sounded good.

While Mike went to pull out her mother’s chair, Merry dropped her napkin and bustled about clearing the table before following the others toward the archway that opened to the family room.

Mike glanced back at her over the tops of her parents’ heads, silently signaling for a wingman.

She nodded, sympathetic to his plight. Although she’d rather head home, she couldn’t desert him, despite the likelihood that her brief fantasy of a Christmas romance was about to sputter and die like a neglected fire.

“I’ll be along in a minute,” she said. In all my glory.

She sighed. The warmth had been nice while it lasted.

MIKE STOOD WITH Meredith in the enclosed entryway of the farmhouse. The walls were paneled in knotty pine, with what seemed like a hundred family pictures hung in random configurations above the rows of coat hooks. While he held Merry’s coat out for her, his gaze skipped through the annual class pictures, following her from white-blond pixie haircuts and toothless grins to poufy marshmallow hair with lots of lip gloss. Apparently, she’d had no awkward teenage phase—only clear skin and a shining smile.

“Let me walk you home,” he said.

She pulled her hair free of the collar. “You don’t have to. It’s only a quarter mile down the driveway, then a short turn off the highway.”

“But it’s snowing. And dark.”

“I can manage.”

From the family room came the sounds of Charlie scraping ashes in the stove. A cabinet door closed and the lights went off in the kitchen. It was not even 9:00 p. m., but the Yorks were closing up the house for the night.

On their way upstairs, Nicky and Shannon stopped to glance into the entryway. “Good,” he said. “You’re walking her home.”

“Her?” Merry jammed the red knit hat down to the tips of her ears, which peeked through the strands of her hair. “She’s walking herself.”

“Meredith, don’t be stubborn.”

She looked at Nicky. Her lips twitched with a sassy retort left unsaid. From their many long talks aboard ship, Mike knew that the siblings had always been combative with each other, but it seemed that Merry wouldn’t argue tonight.

“All right,” she conceded. “You win. He can walk me home.”

“Take care of her like a brother,” Nicky said to Mike with a wink.

Merry made an inarticulate sound of frustration. “Argh.” She was shaking her head and smiling at the same time, a gesture similar to one Mike would direct at his own brother.

“You look like an elf,” he said when Nicky and Shannon had disappeared up the stairs. He couldn’t resist touching a finger to the pink curve of Merry’s exposed ear. “An aggravated elf.”

She rearranged her hair, brushing away his hand. “Are you saying I have big ears?”

“No, pointy ones.”

She fingered a lobe. “Really?”

“Maybe a little.” For a couple of seconds, he watched her fiddle, sliding the hoop earring through tender, pierced flesh. His breathing became shallow. The small gesture was unexpectedly intimate. Almost erotic.

He wanted to lick her lobe with his tongue. Brush away her hair and kiss the downy skin of her nape.

They’d sat on the couch for the past hour and a half, with Charlie between them. Whenever he’d gotten up to poke at the woodstove or sneak another Christmas cookie, one of the boys or even Grace had taken the empty place before Mike could slide closer. Sitting quietly among the chatter about family history and town happenings, Mike had been content with watching Merry. She’d contributed a few wry comments and hearty laughs; she had a wonderfully full, rich laugh that rang like a bell. But for the most part, she’d been subdued, not the bold older sister of Nicky’s stories.

Mike remained intrigued. Why was she holding back?

“I have to walk you home,” he said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

What he really needed was to walk through the falling snow, holding hands with a woman who didn’t quite make him forget his self-imposed isolation and the impending deployment, but who somehow seemed to give a more meaningful sense to it all. Perhaps he felt that way because his arrival in Christmas had revived his patriotic protectiveness for hometown America. Or maybe not.

What he knew for certain was that for now, for one quiet moment, he wanted to think only of Meredith and how good it would feel to be the man reflected in her bright eyes.

Her lashes lowered, then lifted, almost in slow motion. He thought he could hear the soft brush of them against her skin. Her lips parted. “Mike. I’m sorry about that—spending the evening on the couch with my parents, not able to get a word in edgewise. We’re all a bit overexcited about having Nicky home.”

“I enjoyed it.”

Her musical voice dropped an octave. “You don’t have to be polite with me.”

“No?” He moved closer.

Her eyes widened. “What I meant is…” She stopped and laughed with a slow chuckle that danced along the surface of his skin. He felt her nearness in every follicle and fingernail and heartbeat. “You know what I meant.”

He took the red scarf off a hook and looped it around her neck, then let his fingers drift across the first buttons of her coat as if he meant to do them up for her.

She crossed her arms. Looked away. Defensive and evasive once more.

Grace popped her head into the entryway. “Good, you’re still here. Hold on just a sec.” She bustled away. “I’ll give you leftovers to take home, honey.”

“No!”

Grace returned, looking askance.

“I don’t need leftovers, Mom. Keep them for the men.” Merry gave Mike a nod. “Hot beef sandwiches for lunch.”

“Mmm. That sounds great.”

“At least tell me you’ll join us?” Grace inquired of her daughter.

“I’ll be working.” Merry explained for Mike’s benefit. “I’m running the family business, the tree farm and the little shop where we serve hot drinks, sandwiches and cookies. We get a spurt of sales from the last-minute customers, these final few days before Christmas.”

“If you’re sure you’ll be busy, I can send one of our Navy heroes down with a sandwich.” Grace twinkled her eyes at Mike. “You’d do that for Merry, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

She gave his shoulder a pat and said her good-nights, closing the inner door behind her.

Merry shrugged. “It’s a sandwich shop. I don’t need a homemade sandwich. But there’s no use arguing.”

He cheerfully agreed. “No use at all.”

The door opened again. Charlie, this time, blustering. “Didn’t intend to interrupt you two, but I just wanted to say good night. And to give my man, here, a word of advice.” He pumped Mike’s hand, leaning in to whisper in a not-very-hushed voice, “Look up.”

“Oh, for—” Merry broke off her exclamation and whirled away, reaching for the outer door as Charlie exited through the other.

Mike looked up. On a long loop of ribbon, a clump of mistletoe dangled beside the old-fashioned light fixture.

He reacted instantly. But while he had the honed reflexes of a fighter pilot, Merry had gained a good head start. She flung open the door.

The cold air slammed into Mike like a wall. His lungs instantly seized but he got the words out. “Don’t you want me to… kiss you?”

She hesitated at the threshold, shooting him a quick glance. “Not like this.” And then she was gone.

He followed her across the frosty planks of the front porch. The railings were hung with thick evergreen swags. Strings of bulbous red and green lights traced the columns and eaves, making the sky beyond the drifting snowflakes seem very black.

“Hold on a minute.” With his bare hands, he grabbed a shovel that had been left by the door and moved past Merry to clear the fresh snow from the front steps.

She stood at the top with her hands on hips, back swayed and stomach protruded. “Tsk. Where are your gloves?”

“In my pocket. In my coat.” He finished scraping. Snow clotted the corners. “In the house.”

“Go and put them on.”

“Promise you’ll wait?”

She gestured with her mittens. “What am I going to do—outrun you?”

He cocked his head. Curious. “You might try.”

She looked away, withdrawing again as she wrapped her unbuttoned coat around herself. “Go. You’re shivering.”

He took the steps two at a time, snatched his gear from the coat hooks and was back beside her before the vapor of her breath had dissipated. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he shrugged into his coat. “Don’t you want me to kiss you?”

“I answered.”

“Was that an answer? ‘Not like this?’” He didn’t put on his gloves. His fingertips were tingling, all right, but not solely from the cold. “Not like what?”

A frown puckered her lips. “Not with my parents pushing us together so obviously. Not with you leaving in only a week. Not when we’re both…pressured by the circumstances.”

He loomed over her, nudging a finger beneath her chin, making her look at him. He dropped the timbre of his voice to a conspiratorial level that was only partly joking. “What are these circumstances you speak of?”

She blinked. “You don’t know?”

“I feel like I’ve walked in to the second act of a play without a script.”

He could see her roll the words on her tongue, but she didn’t say them. Instead, she stood taller, lifting her chin away from his touch. “Nicky never told you about me?”

“He told me lots of things. Like how he used to call you Merrylegs, after the fat pony in Black Beauty. That he once hit you in the elbow with a rubber-band airplane and gave you a small scar. How proud he was that even though you were a successful executive in Chicago, you gave it all up to move home after your father’s health problems. And that you and the guy you lived with split up around the same time.” Mike had grown more serious, the last fact putting gravel into his voice. “Is that what you mean? Are you still brokenhearted?”

The cold air was no match for the block of ice that was suddenly lodged inside him. Was she aware that they were both on the rebound and therefore ripe for a foolish fling that would certainly be a mistake?

“I’m not brokenhearted,” she whispered.

“Me, neither.”

She licked her lips. “But I am…”

“Eminently kissable,” he said, and gathered her into his arms so she couldn’t run away again. “Even without the mistletoe.”

He put his cheek near hers. Taking his time. Feeling the warmth as their breath intermingled, which he could actually see happening. There were stars in her eyes, brighter than the ones that sequined the sky. Amazing.

The wait was excruciating, and delicious. That was not a word he’d used for anything but food before now, but it was right. Meredith was alluring, enchanting and delicious—even before he’d tasted her.

Finally she conceded. Her eyes flickered and she moved a fraction toward him with her lips.

He took her mouth with certainty, pressing a firm kiss against her chilled lips. For one heartbeat, she hesitated. Then her mouth softened and warmed for him, became a sweet, welcoming haven.

Pleasure grew inside him like a cadence—slow and sure. He wasn’t keyed up the way he felt at the controls of his jet, soaring with adrenaline. Instead, kissing Merry was knowing himself in ways he’d neglected lately. It was feeling the solid earth beneath his soles while angels sang in his ears.

He deepened the kiss. Her body swayed into his. He dropped his hands to her waist, wanting to feel every inch of her against him. He reached into the warmth beneath her open coat, stroked his palms down her sides, framing the roundness of her belly as he looped his arms around her.

Ding. A bell went off in his head.

Plink. The penny dropped.

Click. Pieces came together.

He stepped back, needing to see what he’d somehow, incredibly, managed to miss up until now.

“Meredith.”

She looked straight at him, nodding a little.

“You’re pregnant.”

Her hands went to the bulge beneath her sweater. It was a small one, not so difficult for a distracted man to miss. Still, he felt like a half-blind Mr. Magoo, groping for soda-bottle glasses.

“Yes,” she said in such a smooth yet sharp-edged voice that his vision snapped back into crystal clarity. “I am pregnant. Expecting, as they say.” Her mouth flattened. “In a delicate condition.”

She might have warned him. Her, or Nicky, or—

Oh, hell. Mike stopped the excuses. He had only himself to blame for falling for her in the span of a single evening.

She had pulled her coat closed again and was standing rigid beneath the neon glow of the Christmas lights, her head held at an awkward angle as she studied him for a reaction.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He summoned up a reckless grin to deflect his sense of shock and, yes, disappointment. “Fool me twice.”

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