Nick of Time. Elle James
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She tucked her gloved hands beneath her armpits to keep frostbite from setting in, her breath creating frost and ice on the woolen scarf pulled up over her mouth and nose.
When she couldn’t stand another step without turning into an icicle, she steered Nick back toward St. Nicolas Drive and the Christmas Towne Diner. Lights shone through the frosted windows, spreading a warm yellow glow across the fresh layer of gleaming white snow.
By six-thirty, the diner was half-full of morning customers grabbing a cup of coffee and breakfast before work. Mary sat across from Nick in a red, vinyl-covered seat next to the frosted windows and inhaled the scents of coffee, pancakes and bacon. She’d come to the conclusion that avoidance of the kiss was the best course of action. Stick to the facts of her father’s dilemma and stay clear of entanglements. In her limited experience, short-term relationships with men she didn’t really know wouldn’t work. Mary wrapped her hands around the ceramic coffee mug and let the steam rise to thaw her cheeks. “Ahh. Being warm never felt so good.”
“You didn’t have to walk with me.”
“What, and let you get lost in this thriving metropolis?” Mary huffed softly. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep. Not with all that’s happened.”
Nick stared out at the street and the twenty-foot Santa in all his red and white glory welcoming tourists and customers to Christmas Towne. “What’s with the year-round Christmas theme?”
“With a name like North Pole, what did you expect?” She tipped her head to the side and studied the man in front of her. Black hair, neatly trimmed on the sides, fell down over his forehead, giving him that intriguing mixture of dangerous-spy and little-boy-lost. Add fathomless brown-black eyes and impossibly broad shoulders and you had Nick St. Clair, a killer combination to any woman’s self-control, including hers. Another reason she’d been up all night. How could she even be attracted to a stranger when her father was missing, possibly on the run from a killer?
She dragged her eyes away from Nick and stared around at the groggy customers filling their bellies with warm coffee to chase off the chill. The men exchanged weather reports and news. Some chatted with the waitresses or Lenn, the shortorder cook, who ran between the kitchen and the counter with plates of steaming eggs and pancakes.
One man sitting three booths over caught her attention, not because he had a remarkable face or anything, more because she didn’t recognize him. He stared at her for a long time, his dark eyes narrowing just slightly. Eventually, he lifted his coffee mug, breaking off eye contact. He was probably in a sleep-deprived, morning coma, like half the customers pouring caffeine down their throats. A chill slithered down Mary’s spine. She frowned and turned her attention back to Nick.
Nick set his mug on the table and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just don’t get it. Why make a year-round Christmas in a town so small and out of the way as North Pole?”
“It may surprise you to know that throughout the year, people come from all over the world to visit North Pole. Each year, the post office gets tons of mail addressed to Santa. And each letter is answered with another letter postmarked North Pole.” She smiled, thinking of the children who opened their letters, their eyes wide with wonder and excitement.
“Isn’t it carrying the commercialism of Christmas a bit far?” Nick asked, his tone crisp and biting like the wind outside the diner’s door.
Mary’s gaze shot up to his at the hard sound of his voice. “Don’t you believe in the spirit of Christmas?”
He stared through the frost-covered window into the near dawn of the Alaskan winter. “No.”
Interesting. Mary leaned closer. “Let me guess, you’ve never believed in Santa Claus, have you?”
He shot her a hard look. “No.”
Her heart tugged in her chest as she imagined a miniature version of Nick turning his back on the joy of Santa and Christmas. “How sad. Didn’t your parents even put up a Christmas tree?”
“I didn’t have parents.” His tone didn’t invite further questioning on the subject.
“Oh.” What did she say to that?
His eyes narrowed, as if daring her to throw so much as a scrap of pity his way. Nick St. Claire wouldn’t tolerate pity. Pity was for weak men, and Nick was anything but weak. The man looked as though he could chew nails with his teeth.
Anything she might have said died on her lips. Mary sat in silence. The semitruce between them shattered by her unwitting questions. Okay, so she’d hit on a sore subject. Growing up without family had to have been difficult and lonely.
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