There was a voice singing it, too, but from a distance. Singing live. With a tone so pure, so solid it gave him chills. Whoever that woman was, she should be in L.A., or on the stage, making millions on recordings.
“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t hear the bell.”
Craig wasn’t sure which he noticed first, that the singing had stopped, or that the owner of that voice he was hearing was speaking another rendition of that angelic gift.
“I’m looking for Marybeth Lawson,” he stated his business, trying, without success, to break gazes with the violeteyed blonde standing there holding a plate of delicious-looking cookies.
The cook? Was his first thought.
And his second—what a waste.
“I’m Marybeth.”
Two words. Innocuous. Everyday.
They changed his life.
Or they were going to.
Craig couldn’t explain the impression. Nor could he argue with it. It simply was. With or without his cooperation or acceptance.
Chapter Three
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.