A Snowbound Scandal. Jessica Lemmon

too well that unlike the tart fruit, she tasted as sweet as honey.

      “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

      “I do. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

      She shrugged with one dark eyebrow and tightened plush lips he’d kissed more times than he could recall. He’d made every attempt to kiss the sunshine off her skin that summer. Back then he could’ve buried his nose in her coconut-scented hair and never come up for air.

      Until reality had intruded.

      “I tried to invite you to dinner at my family’s house so you wouldn’t have to eat alone,” she huffed.

      “So I’m the equivalent of a stray dog in need of a bone.” He spread his arms to indicate the expansive room in which he was standing. “Do I look like I can’t fend for myself?”

      “You said no!” she practically shouted.

      “As was my prerogative.”

      What was she up to? He kept his voice even, his tone neutral. He’d been yelled at by a great number of people in his career, and it was his second nature to tamp down any emotions that didn’t lead to an effective solution.

      The line of her mouth softened. Her eyebrows lowered. Naked vulnerability bled into her expression.

      Then he figured it out. It slapped him upside the head, jarring his brain.

       I’m an idiot.

      “I hurt your feelings,” he stated. Could he have been more obtuse? “That’s why you’re here.”

      She made a pfft sound but he was right. He could tell by the way she shifted her weight onto one boot—almost squirming in his presence. Some things about Mimi had changed in the last ten years, but some things hadn’t. She was the same stubborn, beautiful, hopeful woman he’d made love to back then, but with an even sturdier backbone and harder head. She brought him Thanksgiving dinner tonight not because he was a charity case but because—

      “It bothered you to picture me eating alone,” he told her.

      “Why would I care about a pompous, overblown—”

      “Admit it.”

      He heard a deep sucking sound as she pulled in a lungful of oxygen.

      “Fine,” she blew out on an exhale. “I was sitting in front of a dressed turkey thinking that if you weren’t such a stubborn jackass, you would’ve been there enjoying the spoils of a home-cooked meal. Rare in your case, as I recall.”

      It was true. Eleanor Ferguson didn’t cook. She catered.

      “I took it upon myself to deliver both dinner and a message, planning to turn and drive straight back to my family’s house knowing that you were both fed and informed.” A crease appeared between her brows. “Only now I’ll be heading to my apartment instead of back for dessert with my family.”

      He could see and feel the regret coming off her. The expression didn’t erase the elegance of her features, and accentuated the firmer, straighter line of her backbone. She was a confusing whirlwind of attributes, but Chase saw through her air of confidence. She couldn’t hide behind the one quality she’d never possessed: ambivalence.

      Mimi had never been ambivalent or calloused to the needs of others. No matter how badly they’d treated her in the past.

      “Tell me more about what you do,” he said, turning to lift the lids of the containers.

      “What I do?”

      “Yes.” Even cool, the food was an inviting array of holiday fragrances. Thyme and sage and butter.

      “Um. Okay. I’m the director of student affairs for the Montana Conservation Society. I work mostly with teenagers, but I’ve also spearheaded a recent and very important recycling campaign with a local apartment complex.”

      He punched the buttons on the microwave—first removing a small plastic container of cranberry sauce thoughtfully included “on the side.”

      “One of many,” Mimi added.

      “You’re as passionate as I remember.” He pulled two forks from a drawer and laid them on the island.

      “Is that a nice way of saying I’m misguided?”

      “Not at all. The world needs more advocates like you.”

      Her mouth was frozen in a half gape, like she was shocked he’d paid her a compliment. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      They stood on opposite sides of the island—what a metaphor for how they’d left things—in silence as the remainder of the seconds ticked down on the microwave before it beeped. He set the containers between him and Mimi, grabbed an open bottle of wine and two glasses and poured himself one.

      She placed a finger on the neck of the bottle when he tipped it toward her glass. “I’m leaving.”

      “I can’t let you do that.” He poured the wine anyway and set the glass in front of her. She frowned. He offered her a fork. She shook her head.

      “I ate already. This is for you.”

      Chase locked eyes with the woman who used to love him, with the woman he’d nearly loved more than his own common sense. “Thank you.”

      He dug in, scooping a bite of turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing, dunking the fork into the cranberry sauce before closing his eyes and savoring the flavors of a slow-cooked, took-all-day-to-make meal. Before he meant to, he moaned his approval.

      Without another glance in her direction, he unapologetically took another big bite.

       Six

      Watching Chase eat bordered on pornographic.

      Or maybe Miriam didn’t get out much. She rested her top teeth on her bottom lip and watched as he moaned around another bite. Her mouth watered, not for the food, but for him. Hearing those familiar moans reminded her of the time they’d spent together. Naked. No holds barred.

      Not why you came here, she reminded herself sternly.

      Yet here she stood, a woman who’d been literally naked before him, and was at this moment metaphorically naked before him. He’d figured out—before she’d admitted it to herself—that she’d come here not only to give him a piece of her mind but also to give herself the comfort of knowing he’d had a home-cooked meal on Thanksgiving.

      With one masculine hand, he cradled the red wine, swirled the liquid in the glass and took a sip. She watched his throat work while he swallowed, her own going dry. It was an erotic scene to take in for a woman who was currently not having sex with anyone but herself.

      She balled her fist as a flutter of desire took flight between her thighs. Now she wanted wine, dammit. And maybe to touch him. Just once.

      He heartily ate another scoop of his food, then pushed her wine glass closer to her. An offer.

      An offer she wouldn’t accept.

      Couldn’t accept.

      She wasn’t unlike Little Red Riding Hood, having run to the wrong house for shelter. Only in this case, the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t dining on Red’s beloved grandmother but Miriam’s family’s home cooking.

      An insistent niggling warned her that she could be next—and hadn’t this particular “wolf” already consumed her heart?

      “So, I’m going to go.” She’d risk her gas tank running dry before she stayed another minute and found herself trapped with him.

      When she grabbed her coat and stood, a warm hand grasped her much cooler one.