The Christmas Stranger. Beth Cornelison

      “Bye, sis. Love you.” But Zoey had hung up and silence answered Holly. She replaced the receiver with a sigh and walked back to the chopping board.

      “Do you have my clothes?”

      Startled by the voice behind her, Holly fumbled the knife and nicked her finger. She set the blade down and turned. “I put them in the washing ma—”

      The man standing in the door of her kitchen stole her breath, her thoughts, her balance. Reaching behind her, she caught the edge of the sink, wheezing, “Wow.”

      Wow was an understatement. Matt’s piercing blue eyes, Colgate-perfect smile and broad shoulders had only been the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Holly gaped at the man who could have been an L.L. Bean model in another life.

      Ryan’s khaki slacks rode low on Matt’s hips, and he’d combed back his damp, collar-length hair from his now clean-shaven face. His narrow feet were bare, and the crisp scent of soap wafted to her from where he stood.

      Matt’s brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”

      “Uh, no. I…you…Wow. I barely recognize you!”

      Matt smoothed a hand down the front of Ryan’s old blue polo shirt. “Thanks for the clothes. You’re sure you want to give them up?”

      “They’re not doing me any good in his closet. Someone should use them. Why not you?” She let her gaze take in the breath-stealing sight he made once more, then cleared her throat. “They seem to fit well.”

      He tugged at the waist of the slacks and nodded. “Darn close. Thanks.” When he glanced up again, the vivid blue of his eyes, such a stark contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin, hit her with the force of a fist in the gut.

      So bright, so clear, so piercing. Yowza.

      His eyebrows lowered as he frowned. “Hey, you’re bleeding.”

      “Huh?” She glanced down at her hands and saw the blood smeared on her finger. “Oh, that’s nothing. I—”

      He moved across the kitchen, his gait smooth and loose limbed. Taking her hand in his, he brought her cut finger up to eye level for inspection. Her pulse thrummed at his touch, and the soapy-clean scent that clung to him teased her nose and left her light-headed.

      “Do you have some antibiotic cream or hydrogen peroxide for this? We should clean it.”

      Holly snatched her hand back and flashed a nervous grin. “Um, yeah…I’ll get it.”

      Drawing deep breaths to calm herself, Holly hurried to the laundry room to fetch her first-aid kit.

      “How old are your kids?”

      Captivated by the melodic quality of his deep voice, Holly didn’t immediately register the question he’d asked until she returned from the back room and handed him the kit. “I’m sorry. What?”

      He motioned to her refrigerator, covered with the artwork of young hands. “I asked about your kids. I saw the drawings and various other cartoon-themed stuff around the house and was wondering about your family.”

      “Oh, I…The kid stuff is actually mine. You know the saying, ‘Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional’? That’s me. A big kid.” When he quirked an eyebrow and an amused grin, her cheeks heated, and she returned a sheepish smile. “But I think my active inner child helps me relate better to my students. The drawings are from my class. I teach kindergarten at Pine Grove Elementary.” She paused, a stab of regret pricking her heart before adding, “I don’t have any kids of my own.”

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.” His soft tone washed over her like a balmy breeze. “I just assumed—” He frowned as he dabbed antibiotic ointment on her cut. “But I should know better than anyone not to assume anything,” he added under his breath.

      She lifted a curious gaze to study the knit in his brow as he worked on her finger. “What do you mean by that? That you know better than anyone about assumptions?”

      His gaze collided with hers, and she held her breath, mesmerized by the emotions that flickered across his face in rapid succession. “Just that…unsubstantiated assumptions can lead to trouble. False presumptions, my own and other people’s, pretty much destroyed my old life.”

      A swarm of questions buzzed in Holly’s brain. Perhaps, like bees, the questions were better avoided. Matt’s history was his own business, not hers.

      Holly’s heartbeat thudded a noisy cadence in her ears as Matt deftly wrapped a plastic Scooby Doo bandage around her cut finger. “There. All done.”

      As he returned the first-aid items to the box and clicked the clasp in place, curiosity got the better of her. “What happened, Matt? How did you end up on the street?”

      His gaze snapped up to hers, bright with emotion. For long seconds, he didn’t answer. He held her stare, his breathing shallow and uneven. As if he felt trapped. Panicked. Edgy.

      Had she pushed too far? Crossed a boundary she shouldn’t have?

      Finally she broke the spell of his steady gaze and turned away. “Forget it. It’s not my bus—”

      “It was more a chain of events really. Like dominoes falling, one thing led to another until I had nothing left,” he murmured, the distant look in his eyes telling her that his mind was back in that place and time when his life took a nosedive. Seeing the pain that dimmed his expression, she regretted her nosiness.

      “My life became a runaway train, picking up momentum as it careened toward a final crash and burn. I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

      A viselike ache wrenched Holly’s lungs, and empathetic pain flowed through her body.

      “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She reached for Matt’s hand, wanting him to know she understood loss, if not the full extent of his story.

      When her fingers brushed his, then squeezed, Matt’s gaze darted back to hers. He pulled his hand away, slowly shaking his head. “It’s my own fault. None of this would have happened if I’d realized…If I’d known—” A muscle in his jaw jerked as he clenched his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath. “It all started when my wife died…when Jill…killed herself.”

       Chapter Three

      Holly gasped, and her eyes glittered with moisture. “Oh, Matt. You can’t blame yourself for her death.”

      “Sure, I can. And so do plenty of other people.” Matt swallowed hard, choking on the bitterness and grief that swelled in his throat.

      “False presumptions…” she murmured.

      Matt nodded. He fisted his hands and stepped back.

      Why had he said anything? He hadn’t wanted to spoil the camaraderie they’d shared this afternoon. But she’d asked the one question he’d hoped she wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t lie to her. Even if he didn’t tell her the whole truth, the whole sordid story, he owed her an honest answer in return for her kindness.

      The endearing pink flush that had stained Holly’s cheeks since he’d come downstairs from his shower now drained from her face, leaving her complexion wan and bleak. Matt hated the sadness and turmoil that crept into her green eyes. His explanation, vague as it was, cast a pall over the friendly meal he’d hoped to share with Holly before going back to town. He’d been looking forward to sharing her company for a couple hours, free of the suspicion and guilt that still dogged him.

      The strident ringing of her telephone startled them both out of the morose and awkward moment he’d allowed them to get mired in.

      Holly sidled past him. “Excuse me. I should answer that.”

      Matt scrubbed a