A Home for Christmas (6 page)

They turned left out of the foyer and passed through a wide doorway into the parlor. A huge Christmas tree that nearly touched the high ceiling stood in the bay window, filling the room with its fresh pine scent. Covered in lights with homemade and antique ornaments, it reminded Janice of the tree her grandparents had placed there.

Blake leaned over her shoulder from behind and said, “I thought we could add a popcorn garland later.”

Janice eased her hands into her back pockets, considering. Spending time with Blake here wouldn't be so difficult, as long as he kept things light and she didn't let her emotions get away from her. A voice inside her head mocked,
Right. You're way past that, sister.

Ignoring it, she said, “Sounds good.”

He showed her around the ground floor. Blake had made the identical room across from the parlor, which had originally been the music room, into a comfortable office and den. It had a large old desk and dark leather furniture arranged around the fireplace. Other rooms downstairs included a formal dining room, a washroom, and his bedroom. The room that her grandparents had shared took on a whole new dimension knowing that this was now Blake's room.

A king-size cherry sleigh bed dominated the latter, making it difficult to ignore. More antiques, a romantic fireplace, and an adjacent bathroom with a claw foot tub big enough for two made the room comfortable and inviting, but the images filling her head every time her eyes strayed to the bed marked it off limits.

They took the back stairs from the kitchen up to the room she remembered using when she'd stayed here. It contained only a white iron bed and a small white French provincial dresser. Blake remained in the doorway while she walked in and let her mind wander back in time. The memories were so bittersweet.

“Tell me what it was like,” he said.

Janice ran her hand down a freshly painted strip of wood framing the old leaded glass panes of the window. “Billowing lace curtains that stirred in the breeze. There was a padded bench here, in front of the window, so you could sit, look outside, and daydream . . . ” She walked over to the bed.” A white lacy bedspread with lots of colorful pillows. The walls had old floral wallpaper with a pale pink background. And there was a bookcase over there filled with all the books a child would love to curl up with. It was any young girl's dream of a room.”

He walked over to where she stood. “I kept a swatch of the wallpaper before we tore the old plaster walls down and hung the sheetrock. I'm having it reproduced.”

She glanced up at him. “Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

She turned her focus back to the white walls. “I can't imagine what it would look like new.”

“You'll just have to come back after I get it up and see for yourself.”

She chewed on her lower lip. She should run in the opposite direction as fast as she could. But when she opened her mouth, the word “Okay,” came out as if of its own accord.

“I would show you around the rest of the upstairs, but I've just started working on the walls in the other rooms, and it's a real mess.” He swept another of those bone-melting looks down her body. “All that dust wouldn't be a good thing with those black jeans.”

She gave into temptation and swept his body with a look of her own, pausing at his dark pants. “You have the same problem.”

“So I do,” he said in deep, hushed tones that sent liquid heat racing through her veins.

Janice turned back to the window and cleared her throat. “I'm glad that you're restoring the house. It makes me happy, knowing that someone who really loves the place is living here. Caring for it the way my grandparents did.”

“I do love it. It's such a great house.”

She trailed her fingertips down the window frame. There'd been a crack in it that Blake must have repaired. “You do excellent work.”

“Thanks.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “You know, I'd better check on the pasta. My sister warned me about overcooking it.”

As they retraced their steps down the back stairs, Janice said, “I think I sort of met your sister the other day. Dixie, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She breezed by my uncle's as I was leaving last Friday.”

“That's Dixie. Always in a hurry.”

They entered the big airy kitchen at the back of the house. The scarred Formica countertops she remembered had been replaced with white and black granite. The faded linoleum with refinished hardwoods that must have been underneath, but everything else was still the same, right down to the big old stove her grandmother used to cook on. “Man, I can't imagine how old that thing is.” Janice said aloud.

“Still works like a new one,” Blake said. “And it fits. They don't make ranges this wide anymore.” He pulled a stool from the island. “Make yourself comfortable.” Taking her hand, he made sure she was settled comfortably before turning his attention to the pots on the stove.

“So, I heard Doc Prescott is your uncle.” Steam rose in the air as he lifted the lid on the pot containing the pasta.

Word traveled fast. “Yes.”

“I didn't know he had any family left. Guess I should have made the connection after I met you.”

“I hate to admit it, but I didn't remember having an uncle.”

Blake glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “
Hmm . . .
Dixie said . . . ”

He turned a knob and picked up a wooden spoon. She propped her chin in her hand. “What did she say?”

“Oh, just that he had mentioned you over the years.”

“I met him a couple of times when I visited my grandparents. Beyond that, I corresponded with my grandparents. They shared the letters with him.”

As he stirred the sauce, she thought how strange he looked holding a wooden spoon, standing at a stove. He just didn't seem the domestic type. He had the rough, rugged look of the dark and dangerous bad boy. She couldn't tear her gaze away from him.

“That's odd. Looks like he would have written you himself.”

She shrugged. “That's my family. Odd.”

Blake chuckled and shook his head. “Dixie would say,
you can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, you can pick your friend's nose, but you can't pick your family
.”

She burst out laughing. “Your sister must be something.”

“She is. We just haven't figured out what yet.”

Blake set the long wooden spoon he'd been using aside and carried the pasta to the deep, white porcelain sink. Janice looked around the old, familiar kitchen again. When her gaze stopped at the back door, she asked, “Is there still a sun porch out there?”

“Yes, ma'am, complete with your grandmother's wicker porch swing.”

She gasped. “Really?”

“Yeah. We can wrap up in a blanket and sit in it later, if you want.”

Wrapped up in a blanket with Blake on a crisp winter night in a porch swing . . . if that wasn't a recipe for trouble, she didn't know what was.

He moved around the kitchen naturally, as if he spent a lot of time here. “Do you enjoy cooking?” she asked, ignoring his invitation to seduction on the sun porch.

“Yes, although my sister would argue my skill. I'm not as good as her, but I do all right. I guess it's a good thing, too. I'd starve if I didn't. Don't know if you noticed on your way in, but the nearest fast food restaurant is about fifty miles down the road, and my sister usually closes her diner down after the dinner crowd clears out. That way she can do the next day's baking.” He lifted a bottle and asked, “Wine?”

“Please.”

“It's red. Hope that's okay.”

“Perfect.”

While he poured, she said, “That's one of the things I like about Angel Ridge. It seems to have missed development entirely.”

Blake raised his glass. “Here's to keeping it that way.”

He turned to pour the pasta into a colander. “How was your week?”

The scene was entirely too domestic for Janice's comfort. “Busy. Yours?”

“Actually, I took the week off and worked around here. So, I've enjoyed myself.”

Janice couldn't remember the last time she'd taken a week off. What would she do for two weeks in Angel Ridge? And with whom would she do it? It was one of the things that bothered her about taking over her uncle's practice. The pace would be decidedly slower, leaving her more time for . . . what? Blake?

He turned and leaned against the island near where she sat, capturing her full attention. He had the most arresting blue eyes. That lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. Her fingers itched to brush it back into place.

“So, what'd you think of my brother?”

Janice frowned. Where had that come from? “Your brother?”

“Yeah. Remember? He came by last Saturday while you were here.”

“He seemed nice, I guess.” She supposed some women might consider him good looking, but he was nothing compared to Blake.

A huge, cheesy grin split Blake's face.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. So, what are your plans for Christmas?” he asked.

Janice set her glass down in front of her and twirled the stem. This was certainly an odd conversation. “Well, my partners are insisting that I take a few weeks off. In fact, they suggested just today that I take off sometime next week and not come back until the New Year.”

“Sounds great. Do you normally work at Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“For the same reason you worked Thanksgiving?”

Janice shrugged. “I don't mind.”

Blake just shook his head. “Will you be spending time with your folks?”

“Mother is taking a three week Mediterranean cruise. Of course, she invited me along, but being in a warm climate at Christmas doesn't appeal to me.” And three weeks confined with her mother on a cruise ship didn't warrant consideration.

“So, what are you going to do?” he repeated.

“I've been thinking about going skiing, but I haven't made any definite plans.” She didn't want to tell him she was giving serious consideration to spending her time off just a couple of blocks away. If she had any sense, she'd talk herself out of it. No need to mention it to Blake until she'd made a firm decision anyway.

He straightened away from the bar and went to stir the sauce. “You should come here,” he said without looking back at her.

“Here?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat.

“To Angel Ridge. It's a great place to relax. Unwind. You could even spend Christmas Day with me. I usually rattle around here alone on Christmas. It'd be nice having someone else around who does the day solo like me.”

“You?” Janice said incredulously. “Didn't you say you have brothers, a sister, and parents nearby?”

“They spend Christmas day at home with their spouses and kids. Well, except for Dixie. She's still single, too. But she hangs out with her friend, Susan, and her family.”

“So, you don't see each other on Christmas?” Janice asked.

“We get together on Christmas Eve at my parents', go to midnight church service, then part ways.”

A pregnant silence filled the kitchen. Janice knew he was waiting for a response to his invitation.

“Have you lived in Angel Ridge all your life?” She took a sip of her wine.

Blake gave her what could only be described as “a look.” He walked to the refrigerator and removed a bowl of salad. “I'm noticing a pattern with you.” He set the bowl on the island.

She was noticing some things as well, like how nicely he filled out those skin-tight jeans. But she lifted her eyebrows, questioning.

“You're good at changing the subject when you don't want to answer a question.”

“Fair is fair. You've asked me all kinds of personal questions, but I haven't gotten to ask many of my own.”

Blake set a plate in front of her and served salad. “Ask away, but the invitation stands.”

He dished up salad. Janice ignored the invitation. Again. She decided to see if she could throw
him
off-balance. “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Really?” She had expected him to say he was divorced. He was an intelligent, charming, sinfully sexy man. She imagined he didn't lack in dating opportunities.

“Really.”

He turned the burner under the sauce off and put the lid on the pot. When he joined her at the bar, he said, “No and nothing are the answers to your next two questions.”

Janice stopped eating, her fork halfway to her mouth. “What questions would that be?”

“Are you gay? And what's wrong with you?”

Janice laughed into her napkin.

“Come on. I know you were thinking it. I've heard it often enough. A guy who's forty and never been married must either be gay or have something wrong with him.” He leaned down and whispered in a conspiratorial manner. “I have a sister. She tells me these things.”

“I see. Well, since you're not gay and there's nothing wrong with you, that leaves only one other explanation.”

“I can't wait to hear this.” He sat and poured a generous portion of creamy ranch dressing onto his salad. His thigh brushed hers and she nearly lost the thread of the conversation.

Ignoring the fat content he was about to ingest, she focused on her own salad before saying, “You must have impossible standards no woman can meet.”

“What's wrong with having standards? Don't you have them?”

“I thought
I
was asking the questions.”

“Right. Fire away.”

While he chewed, she considered what she would say. “So, you admit that you have standards.”

“Absolutely.” He wiped his mouth. “I think that if more people had standards and waited until they found the person compatible with those standards, there would be fewer broken homes.” He forked up more salad.

Skeptical, Janice crossed her arms on the island and said, “Tell me.”

When he'd swallowed, he said, “First, she has to be someone admirable. Someone people look up to.”

“A spotless reputation,” Janice supplied.

He shook his head. “No one is perfect.”

“I'm glad you acknowledge that.”

“Ready for the pasta?”

She looked at his clean plate and nodded, ignoring her own half eaten salad. “What else?”

Blake took their salad plates and busied himself filling two large bowls with pasta then smothered it with aromatic sauce. “Someone who appreciates quality rather than quantity.”