Soldier's Pregnancy Protocol. Beth Cornelison

Erin understood loss.

      Shoving down a twinge of loneliness, she swiped an errant curl of light brown hair from her eyes. Turning to go inside, she cast another expectant glance down the street. Okay, maybe she was looking forward to seeing Alec a little bit. After all, God didn’t give many men the drool-worthy physique He’d gifted Alec with. Or eyes blue enough to send quivers to her core. So who could blame her for wanting another chance to goggle at the man?

      Considering Alec had ignored her attempts to make friendly conversation, she’d had little else to do but admire his good looks as they moved their belongings last week.

      If he weren’t so … well, unapproachable … she’d consider inviting him to dinner or asking if he’d meet her for lunch one day. If she was truly making a fresh start in her life, she should think about dating again. It had been two years …

       But the timing is all wrong now. Maybe next year …

      A sharp pang twisted through her chest, and she sighed. She had to stop dwelling on Bradley’s death, on the Finley child. She needed to push the horrid memories aside and move forward.

      Pivoting on her toe, she headed inside to unpack another box in her study. One thing was certain—the next man she let into her life had to be the safe, reliable, homebody sort. No more following her man off the edge of mountains, jumping from planes or diving in treacherous waters. She had other people to think about, other lives to consider, responsibilities. She had guilt.

      Erin puffed stray hair out of her face and pushed the gloomy thoughts aside. She set out the few Christmas decorations she owned—a jolly Santa, her mother’s nativity set and a pine garland, which gave her new mantel a touch of holiday cheer. For the next half hour, she immersed herself in unpacking her collection of books. Beloved original copies of Faulkner, Caldwell and Steinbeck, passed down from her father, graced the shelves next to signed copies of her favorite romance novels and mysteries. Textbooks on topics as varied as meteorology and art history testified to her thirst for knowledge, inherited from her mother and the reason she’d become a teacher. Again pain filtered through her chest. She would teach again. But she’d be more careful this time. Much more careful.

      She heard a car in her driveway and moved to the window to peer outside, hoping Alec had finally arrived. Instead she found a delivery van from a local florist pulling to a stop by her sidewalk.

      Erin hurried to the front door in time to see a man dressed in a Santa suit slide out of the van. Not Alec. Disappointment spiraled through her, followed closely by curiosity. Who could be sending her flowers? He had to have the wrong address.

      She grinned, remembering the silly ads she’d seen for the innovative florist, touting their army of Santas on staff to make special deliveries more festive. The Santas would even sing for an extra fee. The Santa in her driveway unloaded a large poinsettia, tugged his fur-trimmed hat lower over his ears and marched up the walk to her porch.

      She stepped out on her porch and called a greeting to the elderly gentleman. He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Erin couldn’t hide the note of amusement in her voice when she asked, “Hello, Santa. Are you sure those are for me?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He lumbered awkwardly in his overstuffed costume up her porch stairs and raised his head. The piercing blue eyes that greeted Erin and her answering bone-deep tremor sent a crackling jolt of awareness through her.

      “And you have a letter of mine,” Alec said.

      She gasped her surprise. Even at close range, the white beard and chubby cheeks looked real. “Mr. Kincaid?”

      Alec held a hand up and shook his head slightly. “Inside.”

      “After you.” She stepped back and waved him inside. “So, moonlighting as an elf?”

      His expression was hard and unamused. Erin’s grin faltered. She had known Alec was remote, but his lack of humor was unsettling. Once inside, Alec placed the poinsettia on her end table and fiddled a bit with the bow before turning.

      Erin waved a hand toward her unpacked boxes. “Sorry it’s such a mess. I haven’t finished in here. I thought the kitchen was—”

      Alec turned his back to her and walked down the hall, opening closet doors and casting a sweeping gaze into each room. She followed him, bristling at his rudeness. He may have lived here once, but this was her home now.

      “Looking for something, Santa?” She didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice. “I have your letter out here—” she hitched a thumb over her shoulder “—if that’s what—”

      He closed the blinds in her bedroom before he faced her. “Have you noticed anyone hanging around the area? Any weird phone calls or strangers come by here?”

      This from a man wearing red velvet pants and a fake white beard?

      Erin couldn’t resist. “You mean stranger than you?”

      He scowled and moved toward her. “Just answer the question. Have you seen anyone watching the house?”

      A tingle of alarm skipped down her back. “No. Should I have?”

      “Not necessarily.” He peeled off the faux beard, which he’d apparently applied with some sticky gluelike substance, and rubbed the black stubble on his square jaw. “Can I see the letter now?”

      Erin stared at him, puzzling over his peculiar demeanor before backing toward the hall. “Sure. In here.”

      She led him to the living room and collected his letter from the coffee table. When she thrust it toward him, he hissed and winced.

      “I asked you not to touch it again,” he grated through his teeth. He took the letter from her carefully, holding it by the edges.

      She gave her head a little shake and drew a slow breath. “Sorry.”

      He grunted and bent his head to study the envelope.

      Just humor him a little longer. Erin shifted her weight and rubbed her palms on the seat of her jeans. “So … you recognize the handwriting or anything?”

      He didn’t answer at first, but when he raised his gaze, she’d swear she saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Her pulse stumbled.

      “Never mind that,” he said huskily. “Don’t tell anyone I was here or say anything about having seen the letter. Understand?” A muscle in his rugged jaw twitched.

      “Well … yeah. But why?”

      His stern demeanor had returned so quickly, she wondered if she’d really seen the flash of pain and vulnerability she’d imagined.

      “Just keep quiet about it. Do you have a zip-seal bag I can put this in?”

      “A bag?”

      “To preserve it.”

      “In the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” Erin hustled past Alec, bemused by his dictate of silence.

      When she returned with a zip-sealing sandwich bag, Alec gently slid the letter into it and tucked it inside the fuzzy lapel of the Santa suit. Immediately he headed for the door with a long-legged stride. “Remember, you never saw this letter. Keep your doors locked, and if you think you’re being followed, don’t take any chances. Go to the cops. Got it?”

      Erin’s pulse did a little two-step in her chest. “Alec, is there a reason you think I might be followed or in danger? If so, I think I have a right to know what—”

      “No.” Alec grimaced and sighed heavily. “I … just think women like you, who live alone, should … be careful.” He quirked his mouth up in a lopsided grin that looked more like a wince. “Merry Christmas.” Quickly he replaced the fake beard and shouldered through the front door, changing his gait as he stepped out on the porch to an old man’s shuffle.

      “Thanks for the poinsettia, Al—uh, Santa.” Rolling