A Cinderella Story. Maureen Child

cuz it’s cold,” Holly said, then added, “Can I be done now, Mommy?”

      Joy tore her gaze from his long enough to check that her daughter had eaten most of her dinner. “Yes, sweetie. Why don’t you go get the pinecones we found today and put them on the kitchen counter? We’ll paint them after I clean up.”

      “Okay!” The little girl scooted off the chair, ran around the table and stopped beside Sam. “You wanna paint with me? We got glitter, too, to put on the pinecones and we get to use glue to stick it.”

      Joy watched him, saw his eyes soften, then saw him take a deliberate, emotional step back. Her heart hurt, remembering what she now knew about his past. And with the sound of her daughter’s high-pitched, excited voice ringing in the room, Joy wondered again how he’d survived such a tremendous loss. But even as she thought it, Joy realized that he was like a survivor of a disaster.

      He’d lived through it but he wasn’t living. He was still existing in that half world of shock and pain, and it looked to her as though he’d been there so long he didn’t have a clue how to get out. And that’s where Joy came in. She wouldn’t leave him in the dark. Couldn’t watch him let his life slide past.

      “No, thanks.” Sam gave the little girl a tight smile. “You go ahead. I’ve got some things I’ve got to do.”

      Well, at least he didn’t say anything about hating Christmas. “Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

      “Okay, Mommy. ’Bye, Sam!” Holly waved, turned and raced toward the kitchen, eager to get started on those pinecones.

      When they were alone again, Joy looked at the man opposite her and smiled. “Thanks for not popping her Christmas balloon.”

      He scowled at her and pushed his empty bowl to one side. “I’m not a monster.”

      “No,” she said, thoughtfully. “You’re not.”

      He ignored that. “Look, I agreed to you and Holly doing Christmas stuff in your part of the house. Just don’t try to drag me into it. Deal?”

      She held out one hand and left it there until he took it in his and gave it a firm shake. Of course, she had no intention of keeping to that “deal.” Instead, she was going to wake him up whether he liked it or not. By the time she was finished, Joy assured herself, he’d be roasting chestnuts in the fireplace and stringing lights on a Christmas tree.

      His eyes met hers and in those dark depths she saw...everything. A tingling buzz shot up her arm and ricocheted around in the center of her chest like a Ping-Pong ball in a box. Her heartbeat quickened and her mouth went dry. Those eyes of his gazed into hers, and Joy took a breath and held it. Finally, he let go of her hand and took a single step back as if to keep a measure of safe distance between them.

      “Well,” she said when she was sure her voice would work again, “I’m going to straighten out the kitchen then paint pinecones with my daughter.”

      “Right.” He scrubbed one hand across his face. “I’ll be in the great room.”

      She stood up, gathered the bowls together and said, “Earlier today, Holly and I made some Christmas cookies. I’ll bring you a few with your coffee.”

      “Not necessary—”

      She held up one hand. “You can call them winter cookies if it makes you feel better.”

      He choked off a laugh, shook his head and started out of the room. Before he left, he turned to look back at her. “You don’t stop, do you?”

      “Nope.” He took another step and paused when she asked, “The real question is, do you want me to?”

      He didn’t speak, just gave her a long look out of thoughtful, chocolate-brown eyes, then left the room. Joy smiled to herself, because that nonanswer told her everything she wanted to know.

       Six

      Sam used to hate the night.

      The quiet. The feeling of being alone in the world. The seemingly endless hours of darkness. It had given him too much time to think. To remember. To torture himself with what-might-have-beens. He couldn’t sleep because memories became dreams that jolted him awake—or worse, lulled him into believing the last several years had never really happened. Then waking up became the misery, and so the cycle went.

      Until nearly a week ago. Until Joy.

      He had a fire blazing in the hearth as he waited for her. Night was now something he looked forward to. Being with her, hearing her voice, her laughter, had become the best part of his days. He enjoyed her quick mind, and her sense of humor—even when it was directed at him. He liked hearing her talk about what was happening in town, even though he didn’t know any of the people she told him about. He liked seeing her with her daughter, watching the love between them, even though it was like a knife to his heart.

      Sam hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought he wanted it. He rubbed his palms together, remembering the flash of heat that enveloped him when he’d taken her hand to seal their latest deal. He could see the flash in her eyes that told him she’d felt the same damn thing. And with the desire gripping him, guilt speared through Sam, as well. Everything he’d lost swam in his mind, reminding him that feeling, wanting, was a steep and slippery road to loss.

      He stared into the fire, listened to the hiss and snap of flame on wood, and for the first time in years, he tried to bring those long-abandoned memories to the surface. Watching the play of light and shadow, the dance of flames, Sam fought to draw his dead wife’s face into his mind. But the memory was indistinct, as if a fog had settled between them, making it almost impossible for him to remember just the exact shade of her brown eyes. The way her mouth curved in a smile. The fall of her hair and the set of her jaw when she was angry.

      It was all...hazy, and as he battled to remember Dani, it was Joy’s face that swam to the surface of his mind. The sound of her laughter. The scent of her. And he wanted to know the taste of her. What the hell was happening to him and why was he allowing it? Sam told himself to leave. To not be there when Joy came into the room. But as much as he knew he should, he also knew he wouldn’t.

      “I brought more cookies.”

      He turned in his chair to look at her, and even from across the room, he felt that now-familiar punch of awareness. Of heat. And he knew it was too late to leave.

      At her smile, one eyebrow lifted and he asked, “More reindeer and Santas?”

      That smile widened until it sparkled in her eyes. She walked toward him, carrying a tray that held the plate of cookies and two glasses of golden wine.

      “This time we have snowmen and wreaths and—” she paused “—winter trees.”

      He shook his head and sighed. It seemed she was determined to shove Christmas down his throat whether he liked it or not. “You’re relentless.”

      Why did he like that about her?

      “That’s been said before,” she told him and took her usual seat in the chair beside his. Setting the tray down on the table between them, she took a cookie then lifted her glass for a sip of wine.

      “Really. Cookies and wine.”

      “Separately, they’re both good,” she said, waving her cookie at the plate, challenging him to join her. “Together, they’re amazing.”

      The cookies were good, Sam thought, reaching out to pick one up and bite in. All he’d had to do was close his eyes so he wasn’t faced with iced, sprinkled Santas and they were just cookies. “Good.”

      “Thanks.” She sat back in the chair. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

      “What?”

      “Talking to me.” She folded her legs up beneath her,