A Man for All Seasons. HEATHER MACALLISTER

great things with Ty in the bed, but Eric kept creeping into her thoughts. Marlie realized it would be impossible for her to have great things in this bed. Ever.

      “I’m calling the carpenters tomorrow,” she said at the same time Ty said, “I can’t buy your bed.”

      “I thought you wanted it,” she said.

      He looked at her accusingly. “I know the story. That means every time I’m in this bed, I’ll think of you. It would be distracting at certain crucial times.”

      “Sorry.” But she really wasn’t.

      He exhaled. “If the carpenters want it, tell them to haul it off right away. As soon as the check clears, go bed shopping. You need a bed that’s you.” He ran his hand over the frame. “This was never you.”

      How did he know that? “What kind of bed do you think is me?”

      “Unbleached cotton, a thick comforter, squashy pillows,” he said immediately. “Beach colors. No patterns because you want to rest your eyes. Maybe a four poster, but nothing heavy. You need a bedside table with a soft light and a CD player where you can play New Age relaxation music.”

      Marlie had expected him to say something like “blue” or “traditional.”

      He was on a roll. “Get a good mattress that will support your back so it won’t get sore from sitting all day. No computer outlets. Maybe a TV across the room, but I’d say no. You need an electronic-free zone.”

      “Okay,” Marlie said, dazzled with the details and amazed that he’d described her perfect bedroom before she even knew it was her perfect bedroom. Except for the New Age music.

      He stood and looked around. “If you want to paint in here, I’ll help.”

      “Okay,” she said again. He was being awfully nice. She tried not to be suspicious.

      “It’s late.” He flexed his shoulders, drawing his shirt across his chest and she thought, his chest is nice, too. “Get some sleep.”

      It will be a while, Marlie thought as she stood. “Thanks. And, again, I’m sorry about ruining your dinner.”

      He looked down at her. “Want to make it up to me?”

      “Yes,” she said before finding out what he had in mind.

      “Get a Christmas tree.”

      That was not what she hoped he had in mind. But he wouldn’t think that way about her. She wasn’t his type. And as soon as she tightened up her current date requirements to being beyond male and breathing, she’d remember he wasn’t her type, either.

      “A tree is easy enough.” Marlie thought of the little pre-decorated table top trees. She could order one online.

      “‘Easy’ means you’re thinking of some wimpy thing. I’m talking about a big tree for the front window.”

      “Oh, come on.”

      He headed for the door. “Those are my terms.” His terms? “Or what?”

      He stopped at the doorway and grinned evilly. “Or I will call your mother and tell her I’m worried about you.” Marlie gasped.

      “I’ll tell her all you do is work and the stress is getting to you.”

      “Oh, that’s low, Ty.”

      “And I’ll say that I suspect you’ve never gotten over your broken engagement and you’re depressed—which might be true.”

      “It’s not true,” Marlie insisted.

      “Convince me. Get a tree.”

      “Okay! I’ll get a tree. Is pre-lit okay, or do you have rules about that, too?”

      “Pre-lit?” Ty looked as though she’d suggested serving one of Santa’s reindeer for Christmas dinner. “You’re talking about an artificial tree?”

      “Well, yeah.”

      He stared at her.

      “My house, my tree,” she said. “Do not call my mother.”

      “Okay. I won’t call your mother. I’ll call my mother. All I have to say is that you’re not yourself and I’m concerned about what will happen when I’m not here to check on you.”

      Marlie’s blood ran cold.

      “And you know if your mom hears about it from my mom, it’ll be ten times worse.”

      “It would be a thousand times worse.” Marlie had visions of her parents canceling their cruise and arriving on her doorstep. “You win. I’ll get a tree. A giant, needle-dropping, fire-hazard of a tree.”

      Ty hadn’t said anything about ornaments.

      THE NEXT DAY, MARLIE received flowers from Axelle. Before noon. Which meant Ty must have gone straight from blackmailing Marlie over the Christmas tree to discussing her with his girlfriend.

      Good times.

      Marlie held the heavy, square glass vase and searched her office for an empty flat surface. Eventually, she had to clear off the top of a file cabinet and set the exotically chic arrangement there, where she could see it while looking up the names of the flowers on Google. They were bright, beautiful and out of the ordinary. Like Axelle.

      Not a carnation, rose or daisy in the bunch. Like Marlie. If she hadn’t gone to seed.

      If anyone should have been sending flowers, it should have been Marlie, but now that Axelle had outclassed her, Marlie had no choice but to dig out her good stationery, ordered for her wedding thank-yous, and write a charming, lively note to Axelle.

      Charming and lively did not come naturally to Marlie, so writing the note took some time. She was not helped by staring at her given name, Marlene, written across the top of the stationery. Her mother had insisted on it, just as she’d insisted that Marlene be on the wedding invitations. They’d never looked quite right to Marlie, as though it was someone else marrying Eric. And look how that turned out.

      She had to access the U.S. Post Office website to find out what a first-class stamp cost these days, and then walk down to the mailbox cluster at the end of the block and drop it in the slot.

      No wonder people emailed everything.

      WHEN TYLER ARRIVED HOME that evening, the bed was leaving. He felt a pang, because it was a stupendous bed, but it came with baggage and Ty didn’t need baggage. To be honest, he was still a little freaked that he kept picturing Marlie when he thought of the bed. Adult Marlie was bad enough, but as he was mentally planning an evening with Axelle, the Marlie that had intruded was the eight-year-old Marlie. He couldn’t help it. Even now, when he thought of Marlie, her sweaty little red-cheeked face came to mind. It was the ponytail. Marlie may have changed, but the messy, bushy lump hadn’t. Ty just couldn’t have sex in a bed he associated with an eight-year-old.

      Marlie had moved fast. Four men were dismantling the frame and carrying pieces downstairs to a pickup truck. Ty stepped aside as two of them passed him carrying the screen that had been at the foot of the bed.

      He consoled himself with the thought that he would have replaced the projection system with a flat screen anyway. Newer technology.

      Marlie was in her office—no surprise. Except that she seemed remarkably sanguine about getting rid of a bed she’d kept as a shrine to a failed romance.

      Ty leaned against the doorway. Marlie wore headphones and didn’t see him at first. A bouquet of bright flowers partially obscured her from view. He waved a hand so the movement would attract her attention.

      She saw him and removed the headphones as she raised her eyebrows. “What’s up?”

      She looked the same as always, maybe faintly curious, since it wasn’t his habit to interrupt her when he came home. He seemed more affected by last night’s