Maid Under The Mistletoe. Maureen Child
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“No. I’m here.”
“Well, good. I wondered.” Another long pause before she said, “Just do me a favor, honey, and don’t scare Joy off. If she’s willing to put up with you for a month, she must really need the job.”
Insulting, but true. Wryly, he said, “Thanks, Mom.”
“You know what I mean.” Laughing a little, she added, “That didn’t come out right, but still. Hermits are not attractive, Sam. They grow their beards and stop taking showers and mutter under their breath all the time.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, then caught himself and sighed.
“It’s already started,” his mother said. “But seriously. People in those mountains are going to start telling their kids scary stories about the weird man who never leaves his house.”
“I’m not weird,” he argued. And he didn’t have a beard. Just whiskers he hadn’t felt like shaving in a few days. As far as muttering went, that usually happened only when his mother called.
“Not yet, but if things don’t change, it’s coming.”
Scowling now, he turned away from the view of the house and stared unseeing at the wall opposite him. “Mom, you mean well. I know that.”
“I do, sweetie, and you’ve got to—”
He cut her off, because really, it was the only way. “I’m already doing what I have to do, Mom. I’ve had enough change in my life already, thanks.”
Then she was quiet for a few seconds as if she was remembering the pain of that major change. “I know. Sweetie, I know. I just don’t want you to lose the rest of your life, okay?”
Sam wondered if it was all mothers or just his who refused to see the truth when it was right in front of them. He had nothing left to lose. How the hell could he have a life when he’d already lost everything that mattered? Was he supposed to forget? To pretend none of it had happened? How could he when every empty day reminded him of what was missing?
But saying any of that to his mother was a waste of time. She wouldn’t get it. Couldn’t possibly understand what it cost him every morning just to open his eyes and move through the day. They tried, he told himself. His whole family tried to be there for him, but the bottom line was, he was alone in this. Always would be.
And that thought told Sam he’d reached the end of his patience. “Okay, look, Mom, good talking to you, but I’ve got a project to finish.”
“All right then. Just, think about what I said, okay?”
Hard not to when she said it every time she talked to him.
“Sure.” A moment later he hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He shouldn’t have answered it. Should have turned the damn thing off and forced her to leave a message. Then he wouldn’t feel twisted up inside over things that could never be put right. It was better his way. Better to bury those memories, that pain, so deeply that they couldn’t nibble away at him every waking moment.
A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was six and time for the dinner Joy had promised. Well, he was in no mood for company. He came and went when he liked and just because his temporary housekeeper made dinner didn’t mean he had to show up. He scowled, then deliberately, he picked up the sander again and turned his focus to the wood. Sanding over the last coat of stain and varnish was meticulous work. He could laser in on the task at hand and hope it would be enough to ease the tension rippling through him.
It was late by the time he finally forced himself to stop working for the day. Darkness was absolute as he closed up the shop and headed for the house. He paused in the cold to glance up at the cloud-covered sky and wondered when the snow would start. Then he shifted his gaze to the house where a single light burned softly against the dark. He’d avoided the house until he was sure the woman and her daughter would be locked away in Kaye’s rooms. For a second, he felt a sting of guilt for blowing off whatever dinner it was she’d made. Then again, he hadn’t asked her to cook, had he? Hell, he hadn’t even wanted her to stay. Yet somehow, she was.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d deal with her and lay out a few rules. If she was going to stay then she had to understand that it was the house she was supposed to take care of. Not him. Except for cooking—which he would eat whenever he damn well pleased—he didn’t want to see her. For now, he wanted a shower and a sandwich. He was prepared for a can of soup and some grilled cheese.
Later, Sam told himself he should have known better. He opened the kitchen door and stopped in the doorway. Joy was sitting at the table with a glass of wine in front of her and turned her head to look at him when he walked in. “You’re late.”
That niggle of guilt popped up again and was just as quickly squashed. He closed and locked the door behind him. “I don’t punch a clock.”
“I don’t expect you to. But when we say dinner’s at six, it’d be nice if you showed up.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just me, but most people would call that ‘polite.’”
The light over the stove was the only illumination and in the dimness, he saw her eyes, locked on him, the soft blond curls falling about her face. Most women he knew would have been furious with him for missing a dinner after he’d agreed to be there. But she wasn’t angry, and that made him feel the twinge of guilt even deeper than he might have otherwise. But at the bottom of it, he didn’t answer to her and it was just as well she learned that early on.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got involved with a project and forgot the time.” A polite lie that would go down better than admitting I was avoiding you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix myself something.”
“No you won’t.” She got up and walked to the oven. “I’ve kept it on warm. Why don’t you wash up and have dinner?”
He wanted to say no. But damned if whatever she’d made didn’t smell amazing. His stomach overruled his head and Sam surrendered. He washed his hands at the sink then sat down opposite her spot at the table.
“Did you want a glass of your wine?” she asked. “It’s really good.”
One eyebrow lifted. Wryly, he said, “Glad you approve.”
“Oh, I like wine,” she said, disregarding his tone. “Nothing better than ending your day with a glass and just relaxing before bed.”
Bed. Not a word he should be thinking about when she was so close and looking so...edible. “Yeah. I’ll get a beer.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, as she set a plate of pasta in a thick red meat sauce in front of him.
The scent of it wafted to him and Sam nearly groaned. “What is that?”
“Baked mostaccioli with mozzarella and parmesan in my grandmother’s meat sauce.” She opened the fridge, grabbed a beer then walked back to the table. Handing it to him, she sat down, picked up her wineglass and had a sip.
“It smells great,” he said grudgingly.
“Tastes even better,” she assured him. Drawing one knee up, she propped her foot on her chair and looked at him. “Just so you know, I won’t be waiting on you every night. I mean getting you a beer and stuff.”
He snorted. “I’ll make a note.”
Then Sam took a bite and sighed. Whatever else Joy Curran was, the woman could cook. Whatever they had to talk about could wait, he thought, while he concentrated on the unexpected prize of a really great meal. So he said nothing else for a few bites, but finally sat back, took a drink of his beer and looked at her.
“Good?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Great.”
She smiled and her face just—lit up. Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he looked at her. That flash of something hot, something staggering, hit him again and he desperately tried to fight it off. Even