Christmas In Whitehorn. Susan Mallery

groaned as she forced herself into a sitting position. It was going to be a long day.

      Cold water on her face and a vigorous teethbrushing didn’t make her feel any better. Normally she waited until she was at the Hip Hop to have coffee, but this morning she needed an emergency infusion. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would jump-start her body. She pulled on her ratty terry-cloth robe and stumbled into the kitchen.

      After flipping on lights and hunting up the coffeemaker, she dug out a filter and coffee, then set about making magic. She’d just turned on the machine when there was a soft tap at her back door.

      Darcy froze. She knew she hadn’t imagined the sound. She also had a really good idea of who would come calling at five in the morning, although she couldn’t figure out why. Then she pictured herself—her hair sticking out at odd angles, her skin pale as chalk, her shabby blue robe that would have disappeared instantly into the throw-out pile should she ever try to give it to charity.

      Perfect. This was so exactly how she wanted to start her day.

      Trying—and failing—to find humor in the situation, she walked to the back door and cautiously peeked outside. Sure enough Detective Mark Kincaid stood there, his handsome self dressed in sweats that should have looked horrible but instead made her mouth water. She opened the door.

      “Did you have an appointment?” she asked before she could stop herself.

      He smiled. Instantly her heart jumped into her throat and her ability to form whole sentences dove for her toes. It was not a pleasant sensation.

      “I’ve been watching your house, waiting for you to wake up,” he said, sliding past her and entering the kitchen. “I figured you’d have to get up early.”

      She closed the door and pulled her robe more tightly around herself. “Okay. I’m up and you’re here. Why?”

      Instead of answering, he pulled her against him. She had absolutely no warning and no way to stop his mouth from settling against hers. She told herself to protest, or at the very least, not to melt. Her body didn’t listen. Instead of pushing him away, her arms wrapped around him and held on as tightly as his. Instead of yelling out a complaint, her mouth simply softened, then parted to admit him. She went from numb to alive in .8 seconds. He was better than a double latte.