“I beg to differ.” I scoop the box up and hug it against my chest, since using one arm is legions harder than using two. Kicking the door shut, I wander toward the couch. “It’s Christmas week and your house has absolutely no color. Nick said to?—”
“I don’t actually give a shit what Nick said.” She forces a dry, unkind smile and meets my eyes with, for the first time since meeting her, ice instead of fire. “Put them back. You’re here to rest, not to work. And guess what?” She tugs the pencil from behind her ear. “I’m trying to work, too. When I agreed to let you stay, I assumed your injuries meant you’d want to sleep.” She goes back to focus on her papers. “I thought it meant my house would stay quiet. I could reverse and run you over again if that would help.”
“Yikes.” Crouching, I set the box on the floor and tap it out of the way so neither of us trip on it, and since I long ago grew used to living with a single, working, beautiful woman, I head into the kitchen and search her cupboards. I’ve been in this house for less than twenty-four hours, which means I don’tknow where she keeps anything. But there are some universal truths most folks live by: every kitchen has a junk drawer, every fridge has anout-of-date dinner tucked in the backjust in case, andifa pantry has hot chocolate and marshmallows, those supplies are usually kept by the baking goods.
I search through a container brimming with old, opened, expired flour. A dozen different packs of colored sprinkles. I push food dye to the side and discover mini marshmallows. They’re only a month past their use-by date, and the packaging is still sealed, so I snag them and toss the crinkling bag onto the counter, then I search a little more and grin as I find a jar of hot chocolate.
Amore. My favorite brand.
I warm milk and select mugs, and less than five minutes after leaving the living room, I return, with two handles held in one hand, the bag of marshmallows in the other, and a wide smile for the woman who is completely fed up already.
“Alright, Counselor.” I toss the marshmallows onto her pile of paperwork and carefully set the mugs down in the only clear spot available. “Let’s discuss the elephant in the room.”
“Can’t.” She whips her file out from under the marshmallows and opens it on her lap. “To defend you in a courtroom, it’s best if I know as little about your crimes as possible. I don’t wanna knowhowyou robbed those jewelry stores. I don’t wanna knowwhy,orwhoyou did it with. I don’t care if you have an emotional spiel about stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, or maybe your mom has crazy expensive medical bills you need help covering. I. Don’t. Care.”
“But I gave you money.” Grinning, I lower to the edge of a single recliner, since she’s spread all over the three-seater sofa, rest my elbow on my leg, and baby the other carefully againstmy chest. “That five bucks says I have attorney-client privilege. My attorney’s allowed to know what I did. The law is clear on your obligations.”
“My obligation is to never lie to the court. Knowing you’re guilty makes it significantly more difficult for me to argue in your favor.”
“You already believe me guilty, which means my silence on the matter has done me no favors so far. However, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” I widen my grin, thrilled as her eyes come back to mine. “What’s up with the Grinch act? Who the hell doesn’t like Christmas, anyway?”
“I neither like Christmas, nor do I dislike Christmas.” She goes back to scribbling notes in the margins of her files. “I’m indifferent to the holiday. It feels odd saying this, since we just met, but I’m using this couch, and you must be tired after your ordeal.” She exhales a huffy sigh and meets my eyes. “You’re welcome to lie on my bed if you need to rest.”
“I…”Am stunned.Silenced. I study her face, her delicate upturned nose, and the smattering of freckles high on her cheekbones. I scour the chocolate brown of her eyes, but with the brown comes golden flecks. Green sparkles. Burnt orange highlights. Her lips are swollen and bow-shaped, the exact kinda bow I enjoy kissing, and this is the week a guy like me might get a come-to-Jesus visit from a beautiful angel intent on setting him back on the straight and narrow.
Who am I to argue with The Ghosts of Christmas Past?
“Youwantme in your bed?” I pick up my hot chocolate and bring the aromatic treat beneath my nose.Smells like home.“You’re so forward, Ms. Maxwell. Are you always this kind to your guests?”
“I guess you’re just lucky.” She snatches up her hot chocolatewithout sayingthank you, tests the milky concoction with a sip, and simply… sits with it for a minute. Two. She stares down into the steaming mug and clamps her lips shut.
“Good?”
Sniffling, she snags the bag of marshmallows and tears it open until fluffy candy explodes in every direction. Pink pieces go one way. White pieces go another. She fists a handful and stuffs them in her mouth, then she takes some more and plops them into her mug. “I’m gonna be at this—” She gestures to her work. “—for a while. Feel free to get a little sleep. I won’t be noisy. I’ll wake you around dinnertime if you’d like.”
“Or… I could sit here and stare at the side of your face until you can’t take the tension anymore.”
Like I knew she would, she firms her lips, her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk stealing acorns, and burns me with a glare.
“I’m a social creature, Anna, and you literally ran me down with your car.”
Her eyes narrow to furious slits.
“The least you could do is entertain me, don’t you think?”
“No.” She speaks around the mess in her mouth. “I don’t think. I’m busy. Go sleep in the snow if you’re not comfortable using my bed. I don’t care.”
“It’s not that I’d be uncomfortable in your bed.” I bring my mug closer to my lips, hiding the curling swells behind black ceramic. “It’s just that I made a promise to myself a long time ago. You see… I never climb into a woman’s bed unless she’s climbing in with me. It’s bad manners and, worse, a wasted opportunity.”
She holds her silence for a beat, her nostrils twitching and her throat moving as the massive lump of gelatin and air moves down her pie hole. She glares, much the same way I imagine shedoes inside a courtroom, but her fierceness comes undone by the smudge of powdered sugar on the tip of her nose.
And fuck it, unless I get to lick it off my damn self, I have no desire to divulge such information.
She’s adorable.
“You asked me a little while ago which types of cases my firm covers, Mr. Warner…”
“Mmm.” I sip my delicious hot chocolate. “And you avoided answering the question.”
