A Town Called Christmas. Carrie Alexander

whipped free, dancing like semaphore flags. Between the scarf and a matching knit hat pulled snugly past her ears was a fringe of golden-blond hair, molded to her pinkened cheeks.

      The woman shot a clenched smile at Mike as she hurried past him and into one of the modest shops. She clutched a large leather purse and a paper gift bag with mitten-clad hands.

      Pretty lady. A needle-sharp shot of interest made Mike’s sluggish blood quicken.

      He huddled in the cold, considering his shopping options. Severely limited. So why not follow her? The store she’d entered looked promising. Icicle lights danced from the eaves. A giant candy cane stood sentry at the door, twined in ribbon and evergreen garland.

      A bell went off as Mike pushed inside. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat. The blond woman was at the cash register, chatting to the clerk while she shook snow off her hat and mittens. “My mother went and invited Oliver for Christmas dinner, since he’ll be alone. I need to find him a last-minute gift.”

      The salesclerk, a rounded woman in her middle years, leaned over the counter and made a whispered comment. Both of them glanced at Mike, who was peeling off his gloves. “Merry Christmas, sir,” said the clerk. Her smile was big and toothy. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

      The blonde turned away before he got a good look at her face. “No rush,” he said. “I’ll look around.”

      The store was small. He prowled the rows of gift items, mainly Christmas-themed ornaments and such. He eyed the blonde over a rack of greeting cards. Something about her was arresting—her color, her brisk energy, the effervescent cheer that bubbled in her voice as she chatted about holiday preparations while fingering a display of fountain pens near the register.

      “Finding anything?” the clerk called.

      Mike nodded and pulled out a card at random. A cardinal in the snow.

      He advanced along the aisle. Wrapping paper, twig reindeer, needlepoint Christmas stockings. Porcelain plates painted with winter scenes. Matching coffee mugs. What did a man without the proper Christmas spirit get to thank his best friend’s parents for welcoming him into their home and holiday?

      “Is it a fix-up?” the clerk asked her other customer. “You and Oliver?”

      “Good grief, no.” The blonde seemed alarmed by the idea. Her hands flashed over her hair before tucking a lock of it behind one pink-rimmed ear. A small gold hoop pierced the lobe. “In my situation? No.”

      Mike glanced away so he wouldn’t be caught staring. Situation?

      “Not even my mother, desperate as she is to marry me off, could think I’d possibly be interested in…” The woman shook her head in the emphatic negative.

       Desperate?

      The sales clerk clucked. “Then she’s still on your case?”

      “In her own way.” A shrug. “You know my mom—she’s so proper. This is hard for her.”

      “Well, she probably knows that Oliver’s always had a crush on you. Just about everyone knows.”

      “Maybe he used to, but he must be over that. I was gone for years.”

      “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The clerk’s lips pursed. “Haven’t you read any of his books?”

      “The science fiction? Not in a long time.”

      “And the romances. He writes them under the name Olivia Devaine. You’ve been missing out.”

      The blonde’s gaze skipped sideways toward Mike. He bent his head over the plate display. “Oh, dear,” she said quietly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

      The clerk beamed. She was enjoying herself. “I’ve gotta tell ya. Every single one of his heroines bears a striking resemblance to you.”

      The woman groaned. “Are you certain you’re not reading too much between the lines?”

      “The latest one’s titled Marianne’s Homecoming. See for yourself.” The clerk pulled a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter and tossed it onto the glass. “You can have it, if you want. I’ve finished. It’s all about a lady executive named Marianne who returns to her hometown to stop an evil developer from bulldozing her family homestead. The hero is an investigative reporter.”

      With some hesitation, the blonde picked up the book. “That’s not so very much like—”

      “His name is Tolliver. Rand Tolliver.”

      “Please. Stop.” She laughed. “Are there love scenes? I won’t be able to look Oliver in the eye if there are steamy love scenes.”

      Colored lights winked off the lenses of the clerk’s oversize glasses as she wagged her head. “There are a few kisses, but nothing explicit, darn it. Oliver’s books never get too sexy. He closes the bedroom door, as they say.” She hunkered down, her elbows on the counter. “If it wasn’t for Dolly getting him liquored up at the Kiwanis picnic and taking him out to her van, he’d probably still be a virgin.”

      The blonde blinked. “That’s old gossip. And private. You don’t know what happened.”

      “I know that Dolly was hoping she’d get preggie so Oliver would marry her. She was certain he was rich, being a famous author, you know.”

      The blonde’s head snapped back. Her cheeks had turned hot pink, but her expression was glacial. She yanked a fountain pen set from the display and set the case on the glass with a distinct click. “I’ll take this. I’m sure a writer can always use a new pen.”

      “Oh. Um, hey, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean anything by that.”

      “I’m sure you didn’t.” The blonde reached for her purse. “It’s fine. Really. I’m not much in the mood for gossip these days, if you know what I mean.”

      Mike gripped one of the plates. He didn’t know what she meant, but his curiosity was certainly roused. Suddenly he found himself hoping that the blonde wasn’t secretly pining for that Oliver guy. Shouldn’t matter to him when he was here for only seven days…except that seven days seemed a much shorter stay than it had fifteen minutes ago.

      Christmas in Christmas might not be so bleak after all.

      He walked toward the register with the plate and the card. The blonde’s head dipped forward while she dropped coins into a zippered compartment of her wallet. She took her bagged item from the clerk and tucked that, the paperback book and the wallet inside her leather bag, not looking up until Mike stood right beside her.

      “Thanks,” she said to the clerk. Finally she glanced at Mike. He was six-one, but she was only an inch or two shorter in her stacked boot heels. A lovely smile flitted across her face as she nodded at him. Her nose was aquiline, with bold cheekbones set high in well-rounded cheeks. Her eyes were a dazzling blue that took his breath away. “Merry Christmas.”

      He made a raspy sound. “Merry Christmas.”

      She turned with a hitch of her purse strap and a swirl of the nubby coat, yanking her red hat over her head as she departed. The bell chimed when she opened the door. A snow flurry swept inside, accompanying the blast of cold air.

      Mike stared after her, even when she was gone. His pulse ticked like the ignition of a gas burner. Heat crawled up his throat. There’s something about her. Something very merry.

      “Didja find what you were looking for?”

      “Uh, yes.” He handed his selections to the clerk. “I’ll take this and the card. Gift-wrapped, please.”

      “Sure thing. Let me get you a box.”

      Mike waited impatiently while the clerk boxed the plate and carefully wrapped the purchase in paper covered with candy canes. She chatted him up, managing to establish that he was only