“Nope,” Benny said. “He’s a knight of the Cavapoo order.”
Laughter rolled around the room again, as warm and cozy as the fire and the mess of wrapping paper that no one bothered to worry about. Across the room, her father inched closer to her mother to say something in her ear, and Mom turned her face toward him.
Their noses were inches apart. Their hands were nearly touching. It was the kind of almost-kiss moment that could last forever or end in a heartbeat. And then—like the scene had been scripted by a benevolent universe—they both leaned that last inch and took that kiss.
Not deep or dramatic or embarrassing, just the soft, sure press of two people who’d circled back to the same page after a long time in the wrong chapter.
Joy rose in Nicole’s chest. She looked out the window and watched a single flake flutter and fall, landing on a pine branch.
It always snowed on Christmas morning, but this one, and the week ahead, felt so different from the rest. She couldn’t wait to find out why.
By the time the Christmas sky had gone dark and the outside tree lights blinked on one by one, MJ McBride settled into her quiet kitchen to relish the simple joy of preparing for tomorrow’s breakfast. With no vacancies in Snowberry Lodge, her tasks were many, but she certainly wouldn’t complain.
Instead, she whispered the words to her favorite Christmas song—not that she’d admit that to anyone but George McBride. She smiled at the thought of her late husband, gone from her life for five years, but never far from her heart.
He loved to tease her and call her “Mariah” when she’d happily hum “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Remembering how he’d laugh and point to himself and say, “Me?” when she sang it, she rolled her shoulders and hummed to nobody but her still-vivid memories.
Long ago, when she was a much younger woman, they’d dance right here when no one was around, and if George had his one glass of Christmas bourbon, he’d croon the high notes into a wooden spoon. She’d roll her eyes and give him a hug, loving him more than life itself.
“Oh, George,” she sighed. “I’m not going to get what I want for Christmas, which would be one more dance. But I wouldn’tmind if you’d help us get through the next year without my sister threatening to sell this place.”
Yes, that was a good Christmas wish. Cindy had mellowed slightly, since their December was such a success and the tax bill was covered. But MJ knew her younger sister was already thinking about next year and the renovations they needed to do. She was the brains of Snowberry, but MJ was the heart.
And if they ended up selling because they got too deep in the hole, that heart would break.
She whisked eggs and milk and cream with vanilla—the base for tomorrow’s Boxing Day French toast—and poured the sunshine-yellow mixture in two buttered pans.
She tucked a foil cover over the pans and slid them onto the rack in the giant fridge, her mind ticking through all the things this lodge full of guests might need tomorrow. A few people had gathered in the living room earlier and had cocktails and snacks, but being Christmas, the schedule was a little different.
She’d liked that change from the routine.
Also—if she were honest with herself—somethinghad her a touch giddier than usual, and it wasn’t just the holidays, although they helped.
Something made the song lodge in her throat when she sang it, she had to admit. It wasn’t only that Red’s Grumpy Santa had “made December” and paid the tax bill, or that she’d caught a glimpse of her sister looking at Jack the way she had when they first met thirty-some years ago.
It was…well. She had a very hard time even thinking about it, or saying it in her head.
She wiped her hands on a towel and told herself she shouldn’t think about?—
The back door creaked, and a swirl of cold air came in with a man who had taken to slipping through this space like he was family.
She shouldn’t think abouthim.
“Knock-knock.” Matt Walker’s chestnut hair was dusted with snowflakes and streaked with silver threads which she, a woman of sixty-two with some silver threads of her own, found very attractive.
Around a golden mustache, his cheeks were ruddy, the color deepened by his Florida tan that hadn’t yet disappeared during his weeks in Utah.
As he slipped out of a down jacket and hung it on a hook, MJ couldn’t help noticing that for all his expensive clothes and good manners, he moved like a man who’d used his body for something other than sitting.
Like someone once rough around the edges who’d worked to smooth them out.
Matt had never said exactly what he did for a living other than he’d “owned a business,” but he didn’t act like a lofty executive. He was easy on his feet, and capable, with hands that showed an honest trade in their knuckles and palms.
Not that she’d spentthatmuch time studying his hands.
“Hey, there,” MJ said, her voice a little too cheerful even for her. “You’re either hungry or lost.”
“Not after a long day of grazing,” he answered. “Although…” He took a sniff. “Does this kitchen evernotsmell like cinnamon and calories?”
