Home for the Holidays. Sarah Mayberry

the chassis open. It’s been welded back together, but you can see the repair if you look closely. And the shock absorbers are all new. No one puts new shocks on a two-year-old car unless they have to.”

      His hands dropped to his sides. He looked annoyed. Then, as though he couldn’t help himself, he knelt beside the car and craned his neck to see under the wheel well. She knelt beside him and leaned in to point out the line of the weld.

      “They’ve driven around a bit to dirty it up some, but you can still see it there.”

      “Shit,” he said, so low she almost didn’t hear him.

      He was so close his shoulder brushed hers when he shifted his weight. She stilled, then stood, dusting her hands down her jeans.

      “It’s not going to fall apart or anything, but you’ll probably have issues with panel fit and rattles. Once a car’s bent out of whack, it’s almost impossible for them to get it straight again even when they put it on the rack.”

      He stood. “I suppose I should thank you for sharing your expertise,” he said grudgingly. She could tell it hurt.

      “That’s very gracious of you,” she said dryly.

      He crossed his arms over his chest again and widened his stance, as though he needed to brace himself for what came next.

      “Thank you,” he said more sincerely. “I really do appreciate the heads-up.”

      She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. He was so damned truculent, like a surly teenage boy being forced to apologize. “Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure.”

      He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged a shoulder as if to say, “Hey, what did you expect?”

      “You should take it back,” she said, turning to look at the car one last time. “Most of those big dealerships have cooling-off clauses in their contracts. Tell them you don’t appreciate being ripped off and make them give your money back.”

      His chin lifted a little—not much, but enough to tell her that there was no way he was taking the car back. Not now that she’d told him to.

      She could almost admire him for his dedication to his own point of view. Almost.

      “Suit yourself,” she said.

      “Oh, don’t worry, I will,” he said. He beeped the car open, then reached into the back and collected a grocery bag. For the first time she noticed the long, curling scar that ran from the base of his left thumb, around the back of his hand and up his strongly muscled forearm to disappear beneath the pushed-up sleeve of his sweater. Where on earth did a man get a scar like that?

      It hadn’t occurred to her before to wonder what he did for a living, or why he’d moved into the neighborhood, but suddenly both questions were on the tip of her tongue. She bit down on them. As though he was going to answer anything she asked him when she’d made him look like a fool. She might not be an expert on men, but she knew that much.

      He shut the back of the car with a firm click. The grocery bag rustled in his hand. She realized she was hovering for no good reason whatsoever.

      “Anyway,” she said.

      “Yeah.”

      “See you around.”

      He didn’t bother responding. She could imagine what he was thinking, though: not if I can help it.

      He headed toward his house. She watched his shoulders rock from side to side with his long stride, then her gaze dropped to his butt. His jeans were faded and soft and they molded his ass faithfully. It was a good ass, too. Firm-looking, round. Quintessentially male.

      Hannah registered what she was doing and swiveled on her heel. Who cared if he had a nice ass? It was attached to the rest of him, and that was arrogant and pigheaded and not-so-nice.

      Still, she’d more than put him in his place tonight. He might have won this morning’s skirmish, but tonight’s battle was definitely hers.

      Grinning, she headed into the house. Score: one all.

      She was still smiling when she pushed open the connecting door from the garage and entered the kitchen. She could hear voices and guessed her mother was already in front of the TV, watching her soaps. Hannah rounded the corner, ready to regale her with the story of her two encounters with Joe Lawson.

      “Hey, Mom, guess what just—” The rest of the words died in her throat when she saw who was with her mother. “What are you doing here?”

      Her sister stood abruptly and smoothed a hand down her skirt.

      “I was just going,” Kelly said. She was very pale and her hands were shaking.

      Hannah felt sick. She hadn’t seen Kelly in months, not since the last confrontation when her sister had begged Hannah to forgive her, to understand, and Hannah had told her she couldn’t.

      Kelly started gathering her bag and coat.

      “Hold on a minute,” their mother said. She put a hand on Kelly’s arm. Hannah looked at it, then at her mother. “Kelly is visiting me, that’s what she’s doing here. She’s my daughter, too, Hannah, and I need to see her and know how she’s doing, just as I need to know how you’re doing.”

      Bile burned at the back of Hannah’s throat. How long had this been going on? How long had her mother been comforting her sister behind her back? Didn’t Kelly have enough attention and love and adoration in her life?

      Without a word, Hannah turned and started for her bedroom.

      “Hannah.” It was Kelly, her voice high with tension.

      Hannah kept walking. She had nothing to say to her sister. Nothing that hadn’t been said before, anyway.

      “I came to talk about the apartment. We both feel really bad about you taking a loss on the sale. Please let us make it up to you,” her sister called after her.

      Hannah shoved her door closed, the echo of the slam loud in the small room. Arms folded over her chest, hands gripping her elbows, she crossed to the window and glared out at the backyard.

      She couldn’t believe her mother had been offering comfort to the enemy, and she couldn’t believe her sister was still trying to foot the bill for the sale of the apartment she’d once owned with Lucas. It had been Hannah’s place, hers and Lucas’s. Their home, not her sister’s. Kelly had had nothing to do with picking the decor, choosing the furniture, deciding which part of town they wanted to live in. Hannah was damned if she was going to let her sister reimburse her for her losses because she and Lucas had been forced to sell in a bad market. Kelly had stolen Lucas, stolen the dreams Hannah had had for her future with the man she loved. But Kelly couldn’t take this one small thing away from Hannah: if it killed her, Hannah would pay off her share of the remainder of the mortgage, no matter what. Just to prove to herself and the world that it had happened, that it had mattered. That for a whole year and a half, Lucas Hall had been hers and not her sister’s.

      There was a tap on the door. Hannah tightened her grip on her elbows. If her sister dared to walk through the door …

      “Hannah, it’s me,” her mother called.

      “I don’t want to talk.”

      “Fine, but you can still listen.”

      The door opened and her mother entered. Her expression was determined. “I think you should seriously think about your sister’s offer.”

      Hannah made a disgusted noise. “Surprise, surprise.”

      Her mother held up a hand. “Listen for a minute, will you? You’ve been planning this trip around Australia for months. Years, really, since you put it off when you first met Lucas. If you take up your sister’s offer, you can go now. I know that’s what you want, what will make you happy. Why not do it?”

      “Because I won’t let her buy her way out of