Читать книгу The Holiday Visitor - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 8

CRAIG MCKELLIPS was much younger than the doddering, elderly gentleman who opted to spend Christmas alone guest she’d expected. And gorgeous. Tall, with dark golden, slightly long hair he was the epitome of every bronze god Marybeth had ever imagined. Skin, eyes, expression—everywhere she looked the man glowed.

Not that she was looking, Marybeth assured herself a couple of hours after Craig had checked in. The man was her guest. One of the hundreds she’d hosted in the three years since she’d opened the Orange Blossom for business. He was back downstairs, seemingly completely satisfied with Juliet’s room, ready for the evening cocktail she advertised in her brochure and on the Internet.

The only reason she was noticing him so intensely was because of her recent conversation with Wendy. She’d been thinking about the feelings the girl had described for Randy that afternoon.

Trying to imagine how infatuation felt so that she knew how to advise the girl. How to help the teenager keep herself away from temptation and out of trouble.

Craig McKellips stood in the doorway to the parlor, still looking godlike in spite of—or because of?—having freshened up, his eyes trained on the far side of the room and the lump lying in the archway leading to the kitchen and the private part of the house.

“I’m assuming that’s yours?” he asked, staring, hands resting on either side of the open French doors.

“Yeah.” She tried to smile reassuringly, as she did every evening that she introduced her family member to their guests, but couldn’t seem to pull it off. Neither could she walk up to him, shake his hand as he joined her. She was nervous.

And there was absolutely no reason why she should be. She’d hosted many single men over the years.

“His name’s Brutus.” She was supposed to be telling him that the oversize dog was friendly. A sweetheart. She meant to. But stood there feeling like an adolescent with a crush instead.

Or, at least, reminding herself of how Cara had acted in eighth grade. How Wendy had sounded that afternoon.

Nodding, Craig stood still, keeping his distance from Brutus, though to give him credit, he looked more respectful than leery.

“Having him here is a good idea,” he said. “With your home open to the public, strangers coming and going, you’re wise to take precautions.”

Very perceptive. Not that any of the guests ever knew that Marybeth stayed in the back part of the house alone. As she’d told Bonnie last week, up until her father’s death two months ago, he’d been there to meet every guest she had. Had insisted she send him her guest register at the beginning of every week.

It had been the only time she’d ever seen him.

“He doesn’t bite unless I give the command.” Her suddenly lame brain was spitting out all the wrong things.

Dropping his arms, Craig advanced slowly, then knelt, his long, gorgeous legs bending beneath him as he called Brutus over. The two-hundred-plus-pound lug took half a minute to drag himself to a standing position and saunter over. Sitting a head above their only guest, Brutus stared the man down.

“Good boy,” Craig said, holding out a hand and Marybeth nearly dropped the glass she’d been holding. Not once in three years had a guest touched Brutus without her right there holding the dog and guiding the introductions.

Brutus, kind being that he was, didn’t rebuke Craig for his insolence. Instead he sniffed the hand beneath his nose and then sat, with only a small frown on his face, and accepted the petting that was, after all, his due.

“White wine or red?” Marybeth asked, turning to the cherrywood bar against one wall.

“White, please.” Even his voice warmed the space around him.

And suddenly, Marybeth heard Wendy’s voice in her head, “even his laugh makes me feel warm.”

What in the hell was going on here?

“Frosty the Snowman” played in the background—an old Partridge Family rendition that sounded more like a love ballad than a friendly rollick—leaving Marybeth embarrassed, though she had no idea why.

She didn’t meet his gaze as she handed him the wine. But she almost dropped the glass when his knuckles brushed against hers.

“There’s, uh, cheese and crackers and, um, fresh fruit on the bar. Help yourself,” she invited, having to concentrate to remember what food she’d just carried out.

She then went to turn down the temperature on the thermostat.

“Aren’t you joining me?” He gestured to the wine. “It’s impolite to drink alone.”

“Not when you’re the only guest it isn’t.” She couldn’t drink with him. He was a guest.

Though the relaxation she might find with a glass of wine sounded heavenly at the moment. She had too much Wendy and teenage love on the brain.

“Well, it’s not healthy,” he said, still holding the completely full glass. “Once you start drinking alone, it gets easier and easier and, before you know it, you’re pouring yourself a glass in the middle of the afternoon.”

Frowning, Marybeth wondered if she should have served any alcohol at all. If he had a problem…

It wasn’t her problem. He was a grown man. An adult—albeit a much younger one than she’d assumed. He couldn’t be much more than twenty-six or seven. Her age…

“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

“Not my own,” he told her. “I used to…know…someone….”

Ah. Someone close to him if she had to guess. Not that it mattered to her.

“Yes, well, in that case, I’ll have one small glass.”

What? She didn’t want any wine. Not really. She was a hostess. Working.

And while she was pouring the drink she didn’t want, Marybeth wasted brain cells wondering what her guest thought of her red, heavily embroidered, beaded and appliquéd Christmas sweater, rather than if he liked the food she’d presented.

“You’re spilling.”

Oh, God. She was. Over her fingers. Setting down the bottle, Marybeth tried to come up with a pithy, logical and sensible excuse for overfilling her glass. To no avail.

But cleaning it up gave her a minute to berate herself. Collect herself. Cool down.

Was she attracted to this man?

Was this…this energy running through her body what Wendy had been talking about?

“So…” she asked, dropping the soaked napkins in the metal bin—it, too, matched the seasonal decor—beside the bar. “Who brings you to Santa Barbara for the holiday?” Busywork done, she faced him.

Craig choked midsip. “Who?”

“Can I get you some water?”

“No.” Another slight cough. “I’m fine. What did you mean, who?” Even though he was still emitting half coughs, his gaze was piercing. Too piercing.

“Well…” Marybeth led the way over to a conversational grouping of antique sofas in front of the gas fireplace, burning merrily for the occasion. To go with the air-conditioning she’d also just switched on. “It’s Christmas,” she said, sitting farthest from the tree while Brutus reclaimed his spot guarding their quarters. “I can’t imagine you’re here on business. Or for a beach holiday on Christmas Day. I assumed whoever you’re spending the holiday with didn’t have enough beds to accommodate everyone….”

“I’m spending the holiday with myself.”

He was available. Marybeth glanced at the third finger of his left hand. No wedding band.

No rings on those hands period.

“What about your parents?” The question came without her usual forethought and Marybeth wondered if she should escape to her private quarters, lock herself up or something until the craziness that was consuming her passed.

Grace, the woman who came in to help Marybeth clean, had had a cold a week or two ago. Perhaps she’d contracted some latent germ from the woman and the microscopic mite had suddenly decided to spring to life in her groin area.

“I’m sorry,” she added when he hesitated. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She stood. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ll just leave you to your evening. Remember, if you leave after seven, to take your key with you. The doors lock automatically—”

All information she’d already given him.

“No!” Craig stood, as well, his jeans and sweater a perfect fit on his tall, athletic body. She loved how his hair curled up over his collar. “Please, don’t go,” he was saying while she ogled him. “Unless you have something else to do, that is. I’d…love the company.”

She had to make breakfast. Sometime before six in the morning. And finish gluing together the clay pot snowman ornaments she was making for the refreshment tables at tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve services.

“I mean, I’ve never stayed at one of these before,” he said, sounding not the least bit awkward. “If it’s not proper, or something, for you to visit with your guests, I understand, I just thought…well, it is the holidays and I’m sure you have a million things to do—family that’s waiting for you.”

That was her opening. Or closing, she meant. Her escape.

“No, actually, I generally mingle during happy hour,” she heard herself admit the very thing she’d decided not to mention. “In case anyone has questions about the area, or needs directions or suggestions for dinner. Speaking of which, there’s a binder here filled with all of the places to eat in town.” She grabbed the familiar, well-used book and handed it to him. “I’ve made notes on the ones I think are exceptional. And discarded a couple that I no longer feel comfortable recommending. You’re welcome to take a look. Only a few will be open on Christmas Day, so you might want to choose early. They’re marked. I should make a reservation for you as soon as possible…”

No man should smell so good. It had to be a sin.

“Okay, I’ll take a look,” Craig said when she stopped to catch her breath. And let her brain catch up with her. “I hadn’t really thought about Christmas dinner,” he admitted, opening the black book. “I’ll probably just spend the day on the beach. Or driving along the coast. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“The trip up State Route One is remarkable.” There. A good answer. “If you’ve never taken it before, you might want to give it a try. It’s slow going in some parts, but follows the coast. You can go all the way to San Francisco without losing sight of the ocean for more than a few minutes.”

“San Francisco. That’s, what, about three hours from here?”

“Three or four, depending on how fast you drive. And on traffic.” No one liked to be rushed, or run out of time. Which would explain why she wanted to stand there with him for…a long time.

He nodded. And she realized that they’d been looking each other straight in the eye for too many seconds. She was going to look away. To take a sip of wine.

“My parents are both gone,” he said, answering her earlier question.

Her heart filled with compassion. Empathy. “I’m so sorry. Recently?”

And as his golden-brown eyes glistened, continuing to speak to her even before he spoke again, Marybeth knew that this man was special. Different.

“My dad’s been gone a long time,” he said with little emotion. And then swallowed. “Mom died this past year. Kidney problems.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Maybe they were all at spouses’ family homes for the holidays. Maybe they’d invited him and he, not wanting to crash the party, had declined. Maybe he had a sibling here, in Santa Barbara….

The thoughts chased themselves around her mind more quickly than she could keep up with them. She just knew she didn’t want him to be alone. Didn’t want him to have to know how alone felt.

“I’m an only child,” he told her and Marybeth peered across the room. Sipped her wine. Studied the lights on the tree, the patterns in light color repetition. There weren’t any patterns.

“Me, too.” The words were soft, only half spoken, really. She was breaking cardinal rule numbers one through ten. Marybeth did not speak about her private life to her guests. Ever. Or drink with them. Or open her heart to them. Or feel attraction…

“You’re an only child?” The question was quiet, respectful. His head was cocked slightly as he watched her.

When her usual yes, without further elaboration, wasn’t enough, Marybeth knew she was in trouble.

“My parents are both dead.”

She was really reacting to this guy.

Was she just vicariously living Wendy’s feelings for Randy? Suffering from transference?

Was it the holidays?

“Recently?”

She couldn’t stop looking at him. “My mom died when I was a kid. An…accident. Dad passed just this year. He had a heart attack on the tennis court.”

“Completely unexpected.”

She nodded. “I…have a friend, who lost a parent this year, too.” Thoughts of James while she was sitting here attracted to another man made the whole situation that much more surreal.

James should be sitting in her living room, making her tongue-tied and uneven. Not this stranger. She and James had history. Things that could never, ever be duplicated. They understood each other on levels most people didn’t even know existed.

She needed him this week. More than ever.

And he’d refused to meet her. Ever.

“Someone here locally?”

He’d promised, from the ripe age of thirteen, that he’d always be there for her. “No,” she said. “He’s in Colorado.” Or at least his mailing address was.

“With family?”

She had no idea how to answer that. The truth—that she didn’t know if James had any family other than the mother who’d just died, didn’t even know if he was married, or living with a woman, or gay for that matter—would be too hard to explain in light of the fact that she’d just called him a friend.

And the greater truth—that her best friend since junior high school was a pen pal she’d never met—wasn’t sharing material. Ever. With anyone.

“He’s not alone,” she said in the end. It was the only information pertinent to the current conversation.

“And what about you?” Craig’s lids lowered slightly as he asked the question.

“I…” She parried personal questions. Always. And not just since she’d become the keeper of a house filled with others’ memories in the making, either.

The silence was long enough for him to bow out of the conversation. To let her off the hook.

He didn’t. He simply sat there. Watching her. Waiting.

Time to clean up the cheese and crackers. To call Brutus over. To start breakfast. Or glue something.

“Yes.” Dammit. She’d known the word was coming. Should have tried harder to prevent it from slipping out. She had no idea where any of this could go.

No idea if he even noticed she was alive, other than as a hostess he was paying to take care of him for a few days.

“My surrogate family wants me to come over, as Dad and I have done every year since Mom died.”

“But you turned them down?” He didn’t sound critical. Or even as though he thought her crazy.

“I told them I was working. Breakfasts don’t cook and linens don’t get changed by themselves and I sure wasn’t going to call my cleaning lady, Grace, away from her family.”

Frowning, Craig set his glass on the claw-foot, cherry coffee table. “I’m keeping you away from your friends? I can go—”

“No!” What was it about him? And her? “I’d stay home whether you were here or not. Truly. I already told them I wasn’t coming.”

Her choice to live her life alone might seem odd to most people, but she didn’t have to justify herself. Nor would she. She was all grown up now. An adult. Her life was her own.

And she was happy.

She was also completely turned on for the first time in her life.