Holiday Kisses. Gwynne Forster

down again he would still be facing the camera and that he should keep his reactions to himself. But that was easier said than done. Neither by word nor action did she let on that they’d met before. He had expected her to indicate that she was his dentist or at least to say it’s nice to see you again. But, oh no. The lady had cloaked herself in a thick layer of professional ice and stuck to the point. She looked as feminine and sexy as he remembered, but that was as far as it went.

      He completed the program and went to his office. Sitting at his desk, he reached for a candy bar and unwrapped it. Damn! She’d just showed him that she was as expert as he at giving the brush-off. He wasn’t frivolous enough to go after her for the sport of paying her back. Besides, as he’d just discovered, he wasn’t immune to her. He saw a lot in her that he liked, but he didn’t have time for a relationship. He put his heart and soul into whatever he did, so he’d placed that part of his life on hold while he drove toward his goal. But Kisha Moran was definitely getting his attention.

      He picked up his copy of the station’s daily journal and glanced through it while he munched on the candy. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. The six o’clock local news anchor would be moving to a managerial post, and the job was up for grabs. He put aside the candy and typed a note to the station manager, giving his credentials and stating that he believed he was the best person for the post. It was not a network position, but six o’clock anchor beat five o’clock in status and seven was even better than six. Telling himself to put his best effort on the table, he got busy editing material that he had planned to air the following week and when he went on the air that evening, he presented his program on Baltimore’s homeless and the rate at which their numbers were swelling.

      At the end of the program, viewers’ calls jammed the station’s telephone lines, and he knew he’d done the right thing. Still, three days passed before he received a call from his superiors.

      “Come in, Craig, and have a seat,” Milt Sardon, the station’s manager said. “I have your application here, and I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Those words sent chills down Craig’s back, but he didn’t flinch.

      “I have to tell you that I never thought you capable of the kind of warm repartee in front of a camera that would make you a good ad-lib mixer with your on-camera colleagues or when conducting interviews. But seeing you sit on the ground beside those homeless people and talk with them as if you were one of them moved me. And your interview with that dental surgeon was an eye-opener. You displayed a lot of warmth and caring, and your viewers could see that. Although you asked her some tough questions, you wanted her to make a good impression.

      “We think you deserve to anchor the six o’clock news. Congratulations. I’m expecting great things from you in the years to come.”

      He resisted letting out a long breath. “Thank you, Milt. I’ll do my best.”

      “That will be good enough,” Sardon said. “The office on the sixth floor is much larger and has a better view. I’ll have your things moved up there.” They shook hands, and Craig walked out into the hallway where, at last, he could let out a long breath of pent-up anxiety.

      Kisha loved the six o’clock news. And seeing Craig in the chair that first night, surprised her, though she didn’t think much of it. The regular anchor probably had the night off. However, she took notice when he announced that he intended to change the program’s format and devoted a short segment to the questions that viewers wrote or called in about Kisha and the location of her office.

      Hearing his voice when she answered her phone at around seven-thirty that evening stunned her. “Hello, Mr. Jackson. This is a surprise, albeit a nice one. Congratulations on your promotion to six o’clock news anchor.”

      “Thank you, Dr. Moran. You were so formal when we last met that I wasn’t sure you’d welcome a call from me.”

      “Come now. I just watched your program, and I want to thank you for airing the letters, questions and comments about my appearance on your program. You were very generous.”

      “I…I was filling up my hour with the best material I had. You were a wonderful guest, quite a bit different from the Kisha Moran that I remembered, but that’s…I think we’ll just leave that until you and I are up to airing it out. Right?”

      She laughed. So he got the drift of what she’d said. Good. “If you say so.”

      “Say…look. What do you say we let bygones be bygones, and you have dinner with me. I want to celebrate my promotion, and I’d like to celebrate it with you.”

      “I don’t know. Socializing could impair the doctor-patient relationship.”

      “Don’t even think it. Good dentists are much easier to find than women who are intelligent, accomplished and beautiful, not to speak of some attributes that I’d as soon not mention. Will you have dinner with me? I’ll take you home the minute you say the word.” He didn’t know why he’d called her. To see her again was an easy answer, but did he want to prove to her that she couldn’t ignore him as she’d done at the station, even when she was looking at him? Or was there something else, something that he hadn’t defined?

      Her answer surprised him. “No chitterlings, brains or rhubarb, please.” What a way to say yes. Nothing coy about this woman, he thought, feeling as if he’d had the benefit of a warm fresh breeze.

      “How about seven tomorrow evening, Friday, while my promotion is still fresh?” He was pressing his luck, but he didn’t want to give her time to think about it. “I’ll be at your home at six-fifteen.” This time her answer was to give him her home address. If she didn’t like the word yes, she certainly was adept at avoiding its use.

      When she opened her door to him, he wondered how many different Kisha Morans there might be. He’d heard that women wore green when they didn’t want to stir a man’s libido. But on her, green was as sexy as if she’d worn fire-engine red. He opened the front passenger seat of his silver Mercedes CLS 550 coupe for her and waited until she had fastened her seat belt, walked around and got in the car. “What do you think of Roy’s. I don’t have reservations, but I know the maître d’ will seat us.”

      “I like Roy’s. If this one is anything like Roy’s in Naples, Florida and Philadelphia, I’m in for a treat. The crab cakes are to die for.”

      If he made her happy, she’d have good thoughts about their time together, and he would at least have made amends for brushing her off. “Then that’s where we’ll go,” he said, opened his cell phone and dialed the restaurant. “This is Craig Jackson, I’d like a table for two at seven o’clock, please.”

      “This is Maynard, Craig. Is your guest a woman?”

      “Yes, indeed, brother,” he said, knowing that Maynard would get the hint and do his best to get him a table overlooking the water in spite of his having called at the last minute. At the restaurant, he gave his key to the parking attendant, went inside with Kisha and led her to the bar.

      “Since I’m driving, I’m having lemonade. What would you like?”

      “Tonic water with a slice of lemon over ice, please.”

      He couldn’t help laughing. “Anybody looking at that drink would think you liked gin and tonic or a Tom Collins, right?”

      “You get the message. I honestly believe alcohol is overrated.”

      “Yeah. I think you alluded to that right after you stuck that needle in my gum. Look, I don’t want to call you Dr. Moran, although I assure you I respect your title. My name is Craig.”

      “I’d like you to call me Kisha, if you want to.”

      If he wanted to. Laughing wouldn’t make sense, but he could hardly resist it. The waitress brought their drinks, and he focused on her as he sipped the lemonade, seeing more in her than he’d seen before, more that he wanted to see.

      “I have a question for you. Is the maître d’ a close friend of yours? You have to make a reservation well over