Christmas In Whitehorn. Susan Mallery

of him.

      

      “I really hate to cancel on such short notice,” Millie Jasper said the following morning. She tried to sound sad, but instead she beamed with pleasure.

      “I understand,” Darcy said, because she really did understand. She just didn’t like it very much. “If your parents want you to come home for the holidays, that’s a whole lot better than staying here.”

      Millie shifted two-year-old Ronnie to her other hip. “I’m hoping they’re going to ask me to move back home,” she confided. “Ever since Ron ran off with that bimbo of his, I’ve been struggling. So this is like a miracle.”

      Darcy knew that miracles didn’t come around very often. She patted her friend’s arm. “Go home. Make peace with your parents and see if you can start over. I’ll miss you on Thanksgiving, but this is better.”

      “Thanks for being so sweet.”

      Millie gave her a quick hug, which meant Ronnie wanted to plant a sticky kiss on Darcy’s cheek. Then the two of them waved goodbye as they left the café.

      “Don’t panic,” Darcy murmured to herself. She reached for a clean cloth and began wiping off the counter. “There are still four other people coming to dinner.”

      Four people, plus him. Because she was now refusing to think about Mark Kincaid by name. Her insides had started acting very strange when she pictured him or said his name—her heart thumping when she thought about him, her stomach sort of heaving and swaying. It was scary and gross.

      “I’m just doing a good deed,” she reminded herself. “There’s absolutely nothing personal going on.”

      It was a darned pitiful excuse for a lie.

      

      Light snow fell Tuesday night as Mark jogged up the driveway toward the duplex. He’d pushed himself too far and felt the resulting pain in his side. With each step, still-healing muscles tugged and pulled, making him ache. He would pay for the extra miles in the morning when he would awaken stiff and sore. Assuming he slept.

      At least he could go running and suffer the consequences, he reminded himself as he rounded the bend in the path. There’d been a time when he hadn’t been sure he was even going to survive. Now he knew he would completely heal and—except for a few scars and a slightly more cynical take on the world—life would go on as it had before. Or would it? Could he ever trust a woman again…after what Sylvia had done to him?

      He shook his head to clear it of thoughts of her. The driveway widened, circling in front of the single-story duplex. He was about to head to his half when he noticed his neighbor standing by her car, wrestling with something large in the back seat.

      He slowed his steps. This wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself. Living next door to someone didn’t obligate him to anything. He stopped about ten feet from her car—her very old car. The compact import had seen better days and too many miles. There were chips in the green paint, a few rust spots and a battered rear fender. But the snow tires were new. At least Darcy knew enough to keep herself safe as winter approached.

      She wrapped her arms around whatever was stuck in the back seat and tried to straighten. Instead she staggered back a couple of steps. Mark hurried forward before he could stop himself and grabbed the thing from her. The “it” in question turned out to be a very large, squishy turkey.

      Darcy blinked at him.

      “Mark. Hi.”

      A blue down jacket made her large eyes turn the color of a summer sky. Snow dotted her blond curls, and her ever-present smile widened.

      “Thanks for the rescue.” She waved at the turkey he held awkwardly against his chest. “I know it’s too big, but I had to special-order it—you know, to get a fresh one. And it was either some puny thing or something large enough to feed the multitudes. My oven is huge, so I figured I’d just go for it. I know about a million ways to serve leftover turkey, so I don’t mind if we don’t eat it all on Thanksgiving.” She paused to draw breath. “I know fresh turkeys are more expensive, plus this one was open-range raised, but it’s only once a year, you know?”

      The chilly bird had to weigh over twenty pounds. He could feel something wet dripping down his leg. Great.

      “You want to show me where this goes?” he asked.

      “Oh. Sorry.”

      She hurried toward the front door, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I could carry that. I mean you don’t have to bring it in if you don’t want to.”

      He was nearly a foot taller and had to outweigh her by seventy pounds. Handing over the turkey at this point would be pretty tacky. “I think I can manage.”

      She ducked her head. “Of course you can. You’re being really nice and I appreciate it.” She unlocked the door and held it open for him. “I’m guessing you know the way.”

      Her place was the reverse of his, he noticed as he moved inside. A small area of linoleum led to a square living room. While his was on the left, hers was on the right. Which meant her kitchen was in the opposite direction. He turned toward the dining room, passed through it and found himself in the middle of her kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and motioned to a shelf containing nothing but an empty roasting pan.

      He deposited the bird into the pan, then glanced down at the wet spot on the front of his sweats. She followed his gaze and groaned.

      “Sorry. I didn’t realize he was leaking.” She reached for a dish towel, made to approach him, then stopped and handed him the cloth.

      Mark found himself wishing she’d offered to clean him up herself. He pushed the thought away as soon as it formed. No way was he going to get involved with another woman. Certainly not a neighbor. Hadn’t he learned his lesson?

      He rubbed at the damp spot, then tossed the towel back to her. “How many are you planning to feed with that?”

      She unzipped her jacket and hung it on the back of a light oak chair. Her kitchen table was white tile edged in oak, surrounded by four matching wood chairs. He noticed that while her kitchen was physically the mirror image of his, nothing about it looked the same. His battered cabinets were a shade of green somewhere between mold and avocado, while hers were white and looked freshly painted. A blue border print circled the walls just below the ceiling. Plants hung at the sides of the big window where lace curtains had been pulled back to let in the light. As their landlord was a hands-off kind of guy, Mark knew that Darcy had made the improvements herself.

      Neither apartment had anything so modern as a dishwasher, which meant he mostly used paper and plastic, when he bothered to eat at home. Darcy had a metal dish drainer placed neatly by the sink. Several pots were stacked together, drying in the late afternoon.

      He returned his attention to her only to realize she was avoiding his gaze. She shifted uncomfortably.

      “There were supposed to be ten of us, including you,” she muttered, studying the toes of her boots. “It’s actually good news for Millie that she can’t make it. Her husband—soon to be ex-husband—ran off with some young girl. Millie’s been struggling ever since. Her folks invited her home for Thanksgiving. She’s hoping they can reconcile and that her parents will ask her to move home. She’s got three kids and desperately wants to finish her college degree so she can get a decent job. So it’s all for the best.”

      He digested the information, wondering if he should ask who Millie was, then decided it didn’t matter. “So how many will there be now?”

      She glanced at him. “Six. Millie has three kids.” She offered a bright smile. “I like having a lot of people around for the holidays. I try to find people like you—with nowhere to go, no family around. As I said before, it’s a tough time to be alone.”

      Great. A table full of strays.

      She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement drew