Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning

a smile.

      After Voncille peeled away from the pump, Carrie went back inside the station. As Hub scooted himself out from under the car where he was working, the dog trotted over, and Carrie absently scratched her behind one ear. Shasta grinned, pink tongue lolling in a sweet comical expression. She was white with black spots, one of which was arranged fetchingly over one eye.

      “You’re a cutie, you know it?” Carrie murmured to the dog, who immediately rolled over on her back and waved all four paws in the air. “You’re a real comedian.”

      “You’re getting attached to that animal,” Hub said, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. He bestowed a snaggletoothed smile on the dog. “Why, if there was any way on God’s green earth that those two ornery pit bulls of mine would accept her, I’d carry this dog home so fast lightning wouldn’t catch me. And by the way,” he continued as Carrie turned toward the door, “I heard that conversation with your cousin Voncille. Don’t pay her no mind.” His homely face was earnest.

      “I get right annoyed when people tell me to find a rich husband. It’s not like there are scads of them hanging around on every corner,” Carrie replied with considerable ruefulness. Except for Luke Mason, maybe. But a kiss wasn’t exactly a proposal of marriage. Nor should it be, since she was determined to pretend it never happened.

      “Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Hub said, treating her to a comical waggle of his eyebrows as she gathered her things. “You might land yourself a Hollywood tycoon while the movie people are in town.”

      “Stick to fixing cars, Hub,” Carrie told him. “You’re a lot better at that than fortune-telling.”

      They were both laughing as she drove away.