Season of Joy. Virginia Carmichael

creep up his neck. He must look like a stalker, standing there silently. He strode forward, forcing a welcoming expression.

      “Grant Monohan,” he said, extending his hand. She took it, and he was surprised by the steadiness of her grip.

      “Calista Sheffield,” she answered. “Wonderful to meet you.” The name sounded familiar. Her smile was a bit too wide, as if she was worried about making the wrong impression. Or maybe she was turning on the star power. As if that sort of thing worked on him.

      “Jose told me you wanted to see me. Would you like to sit down?”

      She frowned down at the couch and said, “You don’t meet with anyone in your office?”

      “Actually, I don’t. We have meeting rooms for groups, and we have a reception area. There’s another building at the south end of the block that we use for most of our administration needs.”

      There was a pause as she tilted her head and regarded him steadily. He could see her processing that information. “Is it a shelter policy?”

      She was quick, this one. “It is. To protect the residents and myself from accusations or suspicion. We have plans drawn up for a new office that will have glass partitions but that’s still a few years away.” He motioned toward the long lobby desk. “So, for now we have Lana get pertinent information on visitors first.”

      She surprised him with a grin, green eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s usually the way it’s done, isn’t it?”

      Grant hesitated, adjusting her age upward. Not for the laugh lines but for the gentle ribbing. He’d been told before he was slightly intimidating but she seemed able to hold her own.

      “There was no one at the desk when I came in, so I just asked Jose.”

      He gave another tally mark, this time for remembering Jose’s name. She might not be a total loss after all. He wasn’t such a fool to think she’d stay more than a few days, but maybe she could do more than sign photos.

      Grant motioned to the clean but worn couch behind her. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me why you’re here.”

      She settled on the edge, hands clutched together. Her anxiety was palpable. “I’d like to volunteer on a weekly basis. Not just for Thanksgiving or Christmas.”

      He plopped into the corner of the couch angled toward hers, putting a good three feet of space between him and those green eyes. “Why?”

      She opened her mouth, but then closed it again. He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently. She looked down at her hands, then up at him again, emotions flitting across her face. Confusion, sadness, yearning.

      Grant wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her it was going to be okay. Shocked at how fast he’d forgotten his professional role, Grant frowned, eyes narrowing. She was good at playing the little lost girl, that was clear.

      “Miss...” He struggled to remember anything more than those eyes trained on him.

      “Sheffield,” she whispered.

      “Miss Sheffield, let me tell you a little about the mission. We welcome any and all support. Seventy-five years of serving the community of downtown Denver has made our organization one of the most respected in the country. We provide shelter, addiction counseling, parenting classes, transport for schoolchildren and job training. There are five separate buildings and almost a hundred staff members.” He paused, making sure she was following him. “But everything we do here is aimed at one goal, meeting the deep spiritual needs of all people. We want to be the Gospel in action, be His hands and feet in this world.”

      Usually at this point in his speech, the new recruit’s eyes glazed over. They nodded and smiled, waiting for him to finish. She leaned forward, eyes bright.

      “So, you mean to say that you provide for the physical needs but the spiritual needs of the person are just as important?”

      “Just as or more. If it makes you uncomfortable, there is also the Seventh Street Mission a few miles away. They are a very respected shelter that doesn’t adhere to any spiritual principles.”

      “No, it doesn’t bother me at all,” she said, her whole face softening. Grant struggled to reclaim his train of thought. Maybe he needed a vacation, had been working too hard. He felt as if he was a knot with a loop missing and that smile was tugging him undone.

      “Good,” he said, eyes traveling toward the plain cross on the balcony overhang. “That’s the only reason we’re here. The only reason I’m here.” He sure wasn’t in it for the money. He paused for a moment, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

      “What about the cafeteria?”

      A vision passed before him of men, young and old, lined up for limp broccoli served by a stunning blonde, while the regular servers stood abandoned, lasagna pans growing cold. “How about intake or administration? You would be working with Lana to get the paperwork in order and maybe interview new visitors or assign sleeping places.”

      She blinked and then nodded. “That sounds fine.”

      “We’ll need to get some basic information and do a background check for security reasons. But you can start today, helping out in the cafeteria. We’ve got a lot of prep work for Thanksgiving.”

      “Of course.”

      “Lana can help with the details.” He stood, offering his hand once more. “It was a pleasure to meet you and I’m grateful for your willingness to serve the disadvantaged in our community.”

      She stood, gripped his hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

      Grant’s heart flipped in his chest as their hands met and he looked into her eyes. Her heart-shaped face shone with hope and her bright green eyes glittered with unshed tears. There was more going on here than a rich person’s guilty conscience.

      But there was no way he was going to try to find out what. He had enough trouble keeping the mission afloat without adding a woman to the mix. Even a beautiful woman who reminded him that he might need something more than this place. Plus, with the secret he was carrying around, no woman in her right mind would want to get anywhere close.

      * * *

      Calista stood up, gripping the director’s hand, his movie-star good looks bearing down on her full force. The man should have a warning sign: Caution: Brain Meltdown Ahead. She could just see him in a promotional brochure, that slightly stern expression tempered by the concern in his eyes. He reminded her of someone, somehow.

      But her heart was reacting to more than his wide shoulders or deep baritone. The man had sincere convictions, he had substance and faith. There was nothing more attractive, especially in her job, where image was everything. She wanted to have a purpose in her life beyond making money and losing friends. She wanted to wake up in the morning with more to look forward to than fighting with her board of directors and coming home to a cat who hated her guts.

      She met his steady gaze and felt, to her horror, tears welling in her eyes. She tried to smile and thank him for the chance to work at the mission, but the words could barely squeeze past the large lump in her throat. Heat rose in her cheeks as she saw his look of confusion, then concern. He probably thought she was completely unstable, crying over a volunteer gig.

      She dropped his hand and immediately wished she could take it back. His hand was warm and comforting, but electrifying at the same time. A short list of things she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

      “Let’s go get those papers from Lana, all right?” His voice had lost its brusque tone somewhat, as if he was afraid of causing her any more distress.

      Calista cleared her throat and said, “Lead the way.” She blinked furiously and turned toward the desk, hoping he couldn’t see her expression. If only he hadn’t sounded so sympathetic. If only he was pleasantly distant, the way a CEO is with employees. But he wasn’t like that; he wasn’t