Christmas At Cupid's Hideaway. Connie Lane

a full-size, honest-to-gosh classic pink Cadillac parked in the center of the room, one that had no roof, a waterbed where the front and back seats had once been and a pair of blue suede shoes tucked near the steering wheel. Past a baby grand piano that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and a wall covered with framed gold records. Along the far wall was a genuine fifties soda fountain, complete with bar stools with bright-blue vinyl seats. Apparently in honor of the week’s festivities, there was a miniature aluminum Christmas tree on the bar, complete with bubble lights. Above the fountain was a sign. Meg pointed to it.

      “All shook up. Maisie’s idea of a joke. Shook up. Milkshakes. Get it?”

      “I got it.” Gabe was also getting a little queasy. He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose any of your other guests might want to—”

      “Trade rooms?” So, she was the resident mind reader as well as the inn’s chef. Meg crossed her arms and stepped back, leaning against one of the bar stools. “Not a chance,” she told him. “Honeymooners in Close to the Heart and they look like they’re there for the long haul. A middle-aged couple in Smooth Operator. Regulars. Maisie wouldn’t have the heart to ask them to move. And from what I’ve heard, card-carrying nudists in Almost Paradise. Don’t worry,” she added when his mouth dropped open, “they promised to dress for breakfast.”

      “This…” Gabe did a slow turn around the room. “It’s a musician’s—”

      “Dream?” Meg suggested.

      He was going to say nightmare. He stopped himself just in time. After all, it wasn’t Meg’s fault that he was feeling the way he was feeling, and there was no use taking it out on her or her grandmother. That didn’t stop a cold chill from seeping through him. He got as far as the piano and paused there. Before he even realized he was doing it, his hands were poised over the keys.

      For one brief, shining moment, hope blossomed in his chest and some of the tension that had been tying his stomach in knots for the last couple of months eased. As effortlessly as breathing, he played a C Major chord. He smiled when the notes vibrated through him, like a second heartbeat. Lost in the magic of the moment, Gabe closed his eyes, ready to ride the wave of creativity as he had so many times before.

      He couldn’t think of even one more note.

      “You play?” Meg’s voice reminded him what he was doing. Or at least what he was trying to do.

      As if the keys were on fire, he pulled his hands to his side.

      “Nah.” Gabe backed away from the Steinway. “Used to,” he admitted. “But that was a long time ago. I’ve…” He coughed away the sudden tightness in his throat. “I’ve forgotten how.”

      “Too bad.” Meg walked back to the door. Her footsteps against the green shag carpet were as light as her laughter. “We’ve got another piano down in the parlor. And I’m always up for a song.” In front of the stained-glass window, she swung around. “You’re not just saying you don’t play because you’ve heard me sing, are you?”

      Not when she looked delicious enough to kiss.

      Gabe’s reaction caught him off-guard and he braced himself and wondered what was wrong with him, anyway. There were more important things to think about than the Hideaway’s sexy chef. More important, sure, he told himself. But not nearly as delectable.

      He wondered if Meg had any idea how incredible she looked against the backdrop of stained-glass colors made molten by the afternoon sun. The blue of the peacock’s feathers matched her summer dress perfectly and brought out blue flecks in eyes that were a shade between the spicy green of a habenero pepper and the cool color of a crisp salad. The yellow in the bird’s beak and the plume at the top of its head touched her shoulders like liquid sunshine and kissed the freckles sprinkled liberally over her arms and neck. The undulating red border around the bird turned the sun’s rays into fire that was every bit as bright but nowhere near as beautiful as her mahogany-colored hair.

      Sing?

      She could sing to him, all right. Anytime. Anywhere. Even if her voice did remind Gabe of a not-so-happy marriage between the sounds of a freight train at full throttle and a coop full of frightened chickens. Her singing voice might make his teeth ache and for sure it was as flat as a pancake, but the rest of her was curved very nicely.

      Taking his time, Gabe glanced from the tips of her toenails with their candy-apple-red polish to the top of her head. He stopped in between for a quick mental inventory of the more interesting places, wondering in spite of himself what a woman who was bold enough to wear a brightly colored dress with her ruddy complexion and Titian hair wore underneath.

      Like it or not, the idea heated Gabe clear through to his bones.

      Meg could sing him to sleep after a night of wild lovemaking, he decided. She could sing him awake just so that he could scoop her into his arms and stop her singing with a kiss before they started the lovemaking all over again. She could sing through his bloodstream and she could sing through his dreams. She could sing to him like—

      “Your phone.”

      Meg’s voice startled him back to reality. He found her with an expectant look on her face and her eyes homing in on the right side pocket of his jeans, where he’d tucked his cell phone before he hopped out of the car. “Your phone. It’s ringing.”

      Gabe shook off the momentary paralysis caused by his own wayward thoughts. That was what he got for dipping his toe in the deep waters of fantasy. Blindsided. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get drawn in and towed under and—

      “Your phone is still ringing.”

      “Oh. Yeah.” He plucked the ringing phone out of his pocket and bobbled it from hand to hand. At least it didn’t play Beethoven’s Fifth like it used to. Gabe had changed it back to an old-fashioned, boring, non-musical ring a couple of weeks before. But although it wasn’t loud, the ringing was insistent.

      “You’re not going to answer it?”

      Good question. He didn’t even stop to consider it. He tossed the phone over on the bed and watched it shimmy on the water-filled mattress.

      It kept right on ringing.

      “That’s it?” Like a rubbernecker at the scene of an especially gruesome accident, Meg was staring at the phone. “That’s how you answer the phone?”

      Gabe poked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That’s how I answer the phone.”

      She slid him a sidelong look. “Woman?” she asked.

      Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. He could’ve sworn that waiting for his answer, she tensed a little.

      “Worse.” He marched over to the 55 Cadillac, picked up the phone and shoved it under the pillows in their pink satin cases. It was still ringing, but at least now the noise was muffled. “Secretary.”

      Imagination again. It had to be. Meg looked…relieved.

      She glanced toward the bed. “Determined little devil. Must be some secretary.”

      “Oh, she is. The best there is on the Left Coast. Way smarter than me. More organized than the dictionary. Has the scheduling talents of those folks at NASA who can make a camera do a fly-by of some planet a million miles away.”

      “She is a paragon.” Meg nodded. “Can she leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

      “Never seen her do it, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Latoya is also—” It wasn’t until the phone abruptly stopped ringing that Gabe realized his thumbs were tight around his fists. He flexed his fingers. Forced the muscles in his neck and shoulders to relax. Unclenched his teeth.

      When an entire minute went by and the ringing didn’t start again, he let out a long breath. “She is also persistent.”

      Meg swung her gaze from the bed to Gabe. “Which would make an ordinary person wonder about what