“The opening night of Holiday Happenings,” she said, and he did his best to remain expressionless at how horrifying he found that name. She took his silence, unfortunately, as an invitation to go on, even though her voice had begun to wobble.
“There’s a pond out back. There was going to be skating. And bonfires. A neighbor was going to bring his team of horses. Clydesdales.” Something was shining behind her eyes.
He thought, again, of the kind of women he had once dated. Five-star meals, gifts of diamonds, evenings that ended in hot tubs. Not Holiday Happenings kind of women.
Emma’s disappointment was palpable. He hoped, uneasily and fervently, she wasn’t going to cry. Nothing felt like a threat to him as much as a woman’s tears. Tess already knew, and used it to her advantage at every opportunity.
“Sorry,” he said, gruffly, whether he meant it or because he hoped saying something—anything—could curb her distress, he wasn’t sure.
“Things will be back to normal by tomorrow,” she said, “Holiday Happenings is going to happen.”
This was said fiercely as if she was challenging him—or the gods—to disagree with her. He wasn’t going to, but the gods seemed to enjoy a challenge like that one.
It was Tess who took Emma’s mind off her weather woes. Apparently the baby was tired of looking at the embarrassment of riches around her, and tired of the adult chatter.
She began squealing and pointing at various cookies and nearly wiggled herself right out of Emma’s arms.
“WA DAT.”
“Want that?” Emma guessed, mercifully distracted. “She’s hungry.”
“Or could squeeze in a cookie after demolishing a ten-course meal,” he said, thanking Tess for evaporating the tears that had shone so briefly behind those eyes.
“Can she have one, daddy? Or does she have to have healthy stuff first?”
He frowned. Let it go? He wasn’t going to be here long enough for it to matter, was he? Correcting her meant revealing something more of the private life, fresh with tragedy, that he kept so guarded.
On the other hand, revealing the fact he was not Tess’s father seemed safer than returning to the possibility the weather could ruin her plans for Holiday Happenings.
If he never heard the words Holiday Happenings again, he would be just as happy. It was worth it, even if it revealed a little of himself.
He realized he had not introduced himself.
“I’m Ryder Richardson,” he said, not trying to disguise his reluctance, “I’m Tess’s uncle. Her guardian.”
“Oh.”
It asked questions, none of which he intended to answer. He stuck out his hand, a diversionary tactic to stall questions and to keep her mind off her failed evening.
She juggled the baby, and took his hand. As soon as he felt her hand in his, he knew he’d made a mistake. Her hand slipped inside his, a perfect fit, softness intermingled with surprising strength.
He felt the zing of the physical contact, steeled himself against it.
She felt something, too, because she froze for a moment, stared up into his eyes, blinked with startled awareness. And then she pulled her hand away, rapidly.
His eyes went to her lips. Once upon a time, a long time ago, when he was a different man in a different life, he had known other diversionary tactics. Most of them involved lips. His and hers.
Now as profoundly committed to taking his wandering mind off lips as he was to taking Emma’s mind off personal questions and the weather, he held out his arms, and Emma gave Tess back to him.
Babies were the grand diversion when it came to women. One look at Tess’s hair should take Emma’s mind irrevocably off her crushed hopes for the evening, and maybe off that sizzling moment of awareness that had just passed between them.
He propped Tess on the edge of the plank table, removed the blanket, pulled Tess’s little limbs from the car coat he’d had her in. Last he fumbled with the ridiculously hard-to-reach snap on the stupid snow hat that he had put on the baby out of a sense of wanting to do the responsible thing before they left on their road trip.
That was the worry part. A snow hat inside the car. In case. Well, that, and to cover the mess of her hair in case they stopped anywhere along the way. The cop might have even looked at him differently if he had spotted the baby’s hair.
If you can’t even look after her hair, how can you be trusted with the larger picture?
“I hate this hat,” he muttered, though what he really hated was that question.
“Why’s that?”
“It never seems to go on right.”
“Ah.” It was a strangled sound.
Ryder shot her a look. She was smiling, biting back a giggle.
He glared at her. He disliked merriment nearly as much as Christmas, especially when it was at his expense and made him feel self-conscious about his baby skills. “Is something funny?” he asked, annoyed.
She held up a finger, letting him know that soon she would be in control of herself. Really, she looked like an evil elf, gasping. The more she tried to stop laughing, the more she couldn’t, as if his disapproval was making her nervous. Which was good.
“You…have…it…on…backwards.”
He could look at it in a different way. Not that she was laughing at him, but that he’d succeeded. The sparkle of tears were gone from her eyes, replaced, that quickly, with the sparkle of laughter.
Only he hadn’t really succeeded. Because he could clearly see she didn’t look like an evil elf, after all. The laughter chased some shadow from her eyes, making them even prettier, and the smile made him even more aware of the sensuous lilt of those puffy lips.
He’d been here less than ten minutes, long enough to know he hated the White Christmas Inn and everything about it.
Ryder looked away from her, frowning. He stepped back from Tess and studied the hat. “I’ll be damned. It is on backwards. No wonder it was so hard to work with.”
A respected architect and he couldn’t get a hat on right. He was learning babies were an exercise in humility. Experimentally, he turned the headgear around the right way, admired it, allowed a small whisper of pleasure at this tiny discovery.
“It was the placement of the pom-pom that threw me,” he decided gravely.
“Of course,” she said, just as gravely.
“Now I won’t have to buy another hat,” he said, allowing that little whisper of pleasure to deepen.
He saw Emma’s look, and was astounded at how his pride was stung at her misinterpretation. “Not because I can’t afford another one,” he said sharply, “because you cannot imagine how terrible it is being the sole man shopping in the baby department.”
Tess was crankily trying to pull that hat back off.
“It doesn’t look like she likes hats, anyway,” Emma said.
“Until she lets me comb her hair, she wears hats.” He took the hat back off and stepped aside, letting Emma see for the first time what was underneath.
If she started laughing at him again, he was going to pick up the baby and head back into the storm, knock on the door of the first house in Willowbrook that had no Christmas decorations and beg for sanctuary from the storm.
But Emma didn’t laugh. Her gasp of dismay was almost worse.