It Happened One Christmas. Leslie Kelly

      Her whole body stiffened, and he mentally kicked himself for going there. Because he and Lucy sure hadn’t.

      Then again, had they expected to? Hell, what had happened between them had been so sudden, so unexpected. Neither of them had been in the right place for any kind of relationship—mentally, emotionally, financially, or in any other way.

      Except physically. Oh, yeah. There they’d been absolutely perfect together.

      It had been so good during the incredibly brief time it lasted. Honestly, looking back, he could say it was the best Christmas Eve he’d ever had in his life.

      Followed by the worst Christmas Day.

      “How do you like being back in Chicago?” he asked, sensing she was trying to gracefully exit stage left.

      “It’s cold,” she said with a shrug, not giving an inch, not softening up a bit. Hell, he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

      “You look like you’ve done well for yourself,” she said, an almost grudging tone to her voice. She looked him over, head-to-toe, as if wondering where the jeans, T-shirt and tool belt had gone.

      Some days—many days—he longed for them. Wearing a suit—even if he usually lost the tie and rolled-up his sleeves at some point every day—just didn’t excite him the way working with his hands always had. “I guess. And you?”

      She nodded. “I have my own studio.”

      “Still boycott Christmas?”

      She glanced down at her costume. “As much as I possibly can, which isn’t easy in my line of work. You still a sappy kid about it?”

      He nodded, unashamed. “Absolutely.” Even if, for the past five holiday seasons, he’d spent a lot more time wondering about Lucy—where she’d gone, if she’d stayed in Europe, become a famous photographer—than he had worrying about what present to get for which sister, niece or nephew.

      As if they’d both run out of small talk for the moment, they returned to staring. Ross couldn’t deny it, the years had been good to her; Lucy was beautiful. No perky little elf hat complete with feather could take away from that. Nor could the short dress, striped tights—oh, God, those tights, did they ever bring back memories—and pointy-tipped shoes.

      She should look cute and adorable. Instead she looked hot and sexy, bringing wild, intense memories to his mind of the last time he’d seen her wearing that very same outfit.

      He was suddenly—forcibly—reminded of how long it had been since he’d had sex.

      Good sex? Even longer.

      Fabulous, never-forget-it, once-in-a-lifetime sex?

      Six years. No doubt about it.

      He swallowed as memories flooded over him, having to shift a little. Lucy had always affected him physically. Damned if he wanted anyone to notice that now, though. The CEO wasn’t supposed to sport wood at the corporate holiday party.

      “I’m impressed that you can still fit into that,” he admitted against his own better judgment. “But not too surprised. You haven’t changed a bit.”

      She flushed. “Maybe not physically. But I’m not the same sweet, wide-eyed kid anymore.”

      He barked a laugh. “Sweet kid? Aren’t you the same person who was planning to dismember her ex-boyfriend when we met?”

      “I didn’t actually do it.”

      No, she hadn’t. As he recalled, Ross had enjoyed the pleasure of taking her ex apart. And it had felt damn good, too.

      “That’s good—I’d hate to think you’ve spent the last six years in jail.”

      “Maybe if you hadn’t stopped calling, you’d know where I spent the last six years,” she replied, ever-so-sweetly.

      Direct hit. He winced. “Look, Lucy…”

      She waved a hand, obviously angry at herself for having said anything. “Forget it. Water under the bridge.”

      “You know what I was going through—why I left New York.” Of course she knew, she’d been there when he’d gotten the call that brought him back home.

      “I know,” she said. “I understood…I understand.”

      Maybe. But that not-staying-in-touch thing obviously still rankled.

      He’d probably asked himself a dozen times over the years why he hadn’t at least tried to get back in touch with her once his life had returned to something resembling normal. Maybe a hundred times. It always came back to the same thing: he was stuck. His life was here. Hers was…anywhere she wanted it to be. And she’d wanted it to be in another country, and a completely different reality from his, which was filled with contracts and workers-comp issues and the cost of lumber.

      She’d been off to capture the world one still image at a time. He’d been boxed in, chained to the past, owing too much to other people to just go and live his life the way he had wanted to.

      Not that it had turned out badly. He actually loved running the business and had done a damn fine job of it. He was glad to live in Chicago. He liked the vibe of this city, the people and the culture. So no, he didn’t regret coming back here. He had only one regret. Her.

      “And now here you are,” he murmured, though he hadn’t intended to say it out loud.

      “Don’t make a big thing of it,” she insisted. “I had no idea you worked here.”

      “And if you had known? Would you have taken the job today, risked bumping into me?”

      She didn’t reply. Which was answer enough.

      Lucy really was mad at him. Well, that made two of them; he was mad at himself. Plenty of room for regrets, with six years of what-ifs under his belt. But at the time it had seemed like he was doing the right thing—the best thing—for both of them.

      Of course, he’d questioned that just about every day since.

      “Excuse me, Ross?”

      He glanced away from Lucy, seeing Stella, his administrative assistant, who he’d inherited from his father. Who’d inherited her from his father. Older than dirt didn’t describe her. She had dirt beat—you’d have to go back to the rocks that had been worn down into the dirt to describe her.

      You wouldn’t know it to look at her. From the bottled black dye job to the floral-print dress, she could pass for fifty. But Ross knew she’d passed that milestone at least two decades ago. He dreaded the day she was no longer around to keep him organized.

      Or to matchmake? He was going to have to have a talk with Stella about that. He knew his assistant thought he was stressed and lonely and spent too much time in the office. Plus, Stella knew about Lucy—she was one of the few people who did, having gotten Ross to reveal the story after one long, stressful day. But would she have gone to that much trouble—tracking Lucy down and getting her here? It seemed crazy.

      If it was true, he would have to decide whether to give her hell for meddling in his private affairs…or thank her.

      The way Lucy wasn’t bothering to hide her dislike made him suspect the former.

      The thought that he might be able to get her to change her mind? Definitely the latter.

      He didn’t deny he was still interested. Still attracted. Judging by the absence of a ring on her left hand, he suspected she was available—at least technically. So maybe it was time to take his shot. See if he could make up for six wasted years. See if there was any way she could forgive him for walking—no, running—away before they ever really had a chance to get started.

      “Ross?” Stella prompted again. “Mr. Whitaker is about to leave, and he’d like to see you before he goes.”

      Whitaker—a client who’d