The Doctor's Christmas. Marta Perry
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held her hand a little longer than necessary. He released it and glanced around, looking for some topic that would ease the tension between them.
“This is a lot nicer than the temporary doc’s quarters.”
The big square kitchen had exposed beams in the corners and crossing the ceiling, with rough white plaster between them. Old-fashioned dish cabinets with multipaned glass fronts lined one of the walls, and a wood-burning stove took up floor space on the worn linoleum. In the corner nearest the door, she had a square oak table, its surface worn with the scars of countless meals.
Maggie managed a more genuine smile. “You should have seen it when I moved in.”
“I can imagine.” He saw the work she must have put in, now that he looked for it. The faded linoleum was spotless and brightened by rag rugs in bright colors. Someone, presumably Maggie, had polished the wood-burner to a black gloss. Red-and-white-checked curtains dressed the three small windows, and each windowsill sported a red geranium.
“No one had lived here for a lot of years. I had to fight the mice for control of the kitchen.” Satisfaction laced her words, and she glanced around possessively.
“I suppose the cat helped.”
“Callie?” Her face softened as she glanced at the white-orange-and-black ball of fur. “Callie’s way too old for much mouse-catching, but we get along okay.”
“How long have you been here?” He leaned his hip against the counter, wondering if she’d ask him to sit. Or if she was just waiting for him to leave.
“Five years.”
Something shadowed her face when she said that—some emotion he couldn’t quite decipher.
“You’ve made a nice nest here.” He sniffed the aroma filling the kitchen—apples and cinnamon, he thought. “Is that the pie I smell?”
She nodded. “Aunt Elly always claims I’m her one failure in teaching the fine art of crust-making.”
“If that means she bakes for you, failure might be worthwhile.”
“Don’t you dare tell her that.”
Her smile was the first genuine one he’d seen directed at him. It lit the face he’d been thinking plain, brightening her cheeks and making her eyes sparkle. He realized he was leaning toward her without meaning to.
“I promise,” he said solemnly.
“Well.” She glanced toward the pot on the stove, her color still heightened. “Supper’s almost ready. Aunt Elly left us stew and biscuits. Why don’t you stay and eat with us? I know you can’t have gotten any food in yet.”
He hadn’t even thought that far. “Thanks, but I can just go out and grab a bite.”
“Not unless you want to make do with a sandwich from the general store. The café doesn’t serve supper except on weekends.”
He really was in the boonies. “In that case, I’ll set the table.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She lifted a stack of plates and bowls from the cabinet.
He took them from her hands. “My pleasure.”
It only took minutes to set the scarred table. Maggie poured milk from a mottled enamel pitcher and scooped stew into bowls, then called the children.
Joey gave him a sidelong look as Grant slid onto a chair. “He staying for supper?”
“Yes.” Maggie’s return gaze was cautionary. “You be polite, you hear?”
“We’ll get along fine, as long as Joey doesn’t try to repair my furnace again.” Grant studied what he could see of the kid’s averted face. “What made you decide to work on the furnace, anyway?”
Thin shoulders shrugged. “I dunno.”
He wanted to pursue it, but Maggie held out her hand to him. Startled, he took it, then realized they were all holding hands around the table. Joey frowned at him, ducking his chin. Apparently they were going to pray.
“Father, we ask You to bless this food.” Maggie’s warm, intimate tone suggested she spoke to a friend. “Please bless and protect Nella and bring her back to us soon.” There was an almost imperceptible pause. “And we ask Your blessings on the guest at our table, Lord. Make his time here fruitful. Amen.”
He didn’t remember the last time anyone had prayed for him. It made him uncomfortable and touched him simultaneously. He and God hadn’t been on speaking terms in years, but he didn’t suppose he’d ever tell Maggie that.
“Good stew.” Joey was well into his bowl already.
Maggie caught Grant’s eyes and smiled. “He’s a growing boy. He eats like a bear.”
Joey growled, making his little sister and brother laugh. The kid’s answering grin was pleased.
The girl, Tacey, was a mouse of a child, thin and shy, with light brown hair tumbling into her eyes in spite of the pink plastic barrette that was pinned in it. The smaller boy laughed at Joey’s antics, then glanced around as if maybe he shouldn’t have.
An interesting combination. Maggie seemed to lose that perennial chip on her shoulder when she talked with the kids. Her brown eyes warmed with caring.
When he’d first seen her that afternoon, he’d thought he was looking at an overworked nurse with an antipathy toward outsiders, doctors or both. Now he saw another side to Maggie, one that was ruled by protectiveness toward the three kids, the old cat and probably also the elderly woman.
She glanced up and caught him watching her. Her eyes widened, and for an instant he didn’t hear the children’s chatter. Their gazes caught and held. Awareness stretched between them like a taut cord.
Maggie broke the contact first, looking down at her bowl, her cheeks pinker than they’d been before. He yanked his attention to his stew, stirring the brown gravy as if that was the only thing on his mind.
What had just happened?
No sense asking the question. He already knew the answer. He’d looked at Maggie and felt a shockingly strong wave of attraction. Maggie had felt it, too.
That wouldn’t do. He rejected the temptation. This month would be difficult enough without that kind of entanglement.
A pleasant, professional relationship—that was what was called for here. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to move beyond that instant antagonism. Maybe he should have settled for being sparring partners with Maggie, because anything else was out of the question.
Maggie stood at the reception desk checking charts. At least, she should have been checking charts. She definitely should not be thinking about those moments at supper last night when attraction had sparked between her and Grant.
She couldn’t dismiss the memory. Like the proverbial elephant in the living room, it took up too much space. She couldn’t ignore the warm wave that had washed over her, waking every cell in her body and reminding her she was alive.
All right, be rational. She couldn’t pretend that moment hadn’t happened, but she could understand her reactions. After all, she hadn’t had anyone special in her life for a long time—since she’d come back to Button Gap, in fact. She could hardly be surprised if working in close quarters with an attractive man roused feelings that were better left sleeping.
Grant was attractive. With his classically handsome face and his assured manner, he looked like what she suspected he was—a sophisticated, upper-class urbanite who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A greater contrast to herself couldn’t be imagined.
Well, she wasn’t trying to measure his suitability for her, was she? She’d simply recognize the feeling for what it was and shut it down. She’d shut down worse emotions than this in her life. She could handle it.