A Town Called Christmas. Carrie Alexander
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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