The December night smelled of pine and smoke from a fireplace somewhere close. The familiar mingle of scents struck deep into his memories, of the happy times he used to spend here with his grandmother. She had been his rock, the one constant support in the midst of his chaotic family life.
He breathed in deeply as he opened her car door. As they walked to her house, he realized with shock that this was the most peaceful he had felt in weeks, since that horrible day when he’d pulled up to Elise’s house to find sirens and flashing lights and ambulances.
“You don’t have to walk me to the door, Flynn. This isn’t a date.”
He suddenly wished it had been a date, that the two of them had gone to dinner somewhere and shared secrets and stories and long, delicious kisses.
If it had been a date, he possibly could give into this sudden hunger to kiss her at the doorstep, to finally taste that lush mouth that had been tantalizing him all evening.
“I want to make sure you don’t slip,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, just not the entire truth. “Ice can be dangerous.”
She said nothing, though he thought her eyes might have narrowed slightly as if she sensed he had more on his mind than merely her safety.
They both made it up the steps without incident, and it only took her a moment to find a key in her purse.
“Good night,” she said after she unlocked her door. “Thank you for including me in Olivia’s birthday celebration. It was an honor, truly.”
“We were the lucky ones that you agreed to come. It was a dream come true for her, sharing delicious pizza with her favorite author.”
“I imagine her dreams will become a little more lofty as she gets older, but I’m happy I could help with this one.” She gave him a sidelong look. “I hope I see her at the rehearsal tomorrow for the Christmas program. She really seemed to be interested in participating, and we would love to have her. Don’t worry. She’ll have fun.”
Damn. He had almost forgotten about that. The peace he had been feeling seemed to evaporate like the puffs of air from their breaths.
“Don’t plan on her,” he warned.
“Why not?” she asked with a frown.
He raked a hand through his hair. “She’s been through a brutal experience. Would you have been ready for something like this right after your own trauma?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if I expressed any interest at all, my aunt and uncle would have been right in the front row, cheering me on.”
“I’m not your aunt and uncle,” he said, with more bite in his voice than he intended.
She froze for just a moment, then nodded, her sweet, lovely features turning as wintry as the evening. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I overstepped.”
Her words and the tight tone made him feel like an ass. She was only trying to help his child.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t see how getting up in front of a bunch of strangers and singing about peace on earth will help a young girl suffering from PTSD.”
“I suppose you’re right. I will say that my parents firmly believed a person could ease her own troubles while helping others—or at least trying to see them in a different light. Living here with Uncle Claude and Aunt Mary only reinforced that message. They started The Christmas Ranch so my sisters and I could find comfort in the midst of our own pain by bringing the joy of the holidays to others. It worked for us. I guess I was hoping it would do the same for Olivia, but you’re her father. It’s ultimately your decision.”
Talk about backing a guy into a corner. What was he supposed to do?
Olivia had expressed a desire to participate, the first time anything had sparked her interest in weeks. He certainly had the right as her father to make decisions about what he thought was best for her, but what if he was wrong? What if she truly did need this? How could he be the one to say no to her?
“Fine,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll bring her tomorrow. If she enjoys herself, she can come back. But if I believe this is at all stressing her, I’ll immediately put an end to it.”
She smiled and he was struck again by how lovely she was. Behind her quiet prettiness was a woman of true beauty; she just seemed determined to hide it.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. We’ll be thrilled to have her. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, in the main lodge at the ranch. Do you know where it is?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you both tomorrow, then.”
He knew that idea shouldn’t leave him with this bubbly anticipation.
“Good night. Thanks again for having dinner with us.”
“You’re welcome. It was truly my pleasure.”
He started to leave and then, prompted by the impulse that had been coursing through him all evening, he reached forward and kissed her softly on the cheek, the light sort of kiss people gave to even their casual acquaintances in California.
She smelled delicious—of laundry soap and almonds and some kind of springtime flowers. It took him a moment to place her scent. Violets—sweet and fresh and full of hope.
Instantly, he knew this was a mistake, that he would be dreaming of that scent all night.
Her eyes, wide and shocked behind her glasses, were impossibly green. It would be easy—so very easy—to shift his mouth just a few inches and truly kiss her. For an instant the temptation was overwhelming, but he drew on all his strength and forced himself to step away.
“Good night,” he said again. To his dismay, his voice sounded ragged.
“Yes,” she answered with a dazed sort of look that he told himself was only surprise.
He didn’t give himself the chance to explore if that look in her eyes might have some other source—like a shared attraction, for instance. He just turned around and headed down the steps of her porch and toward his vehicle and his sleeping child.
* * *
When she was certain Flynn was in his car, driving back down the lane toward the main road, Celeste moved away from the window and sank into her favorite chair. Lucy—all sleek, sinuous grace—immediately pounced into her lap. She took a moment to pet the cat, her thoughts twirling.
For a moment there she had been almost positive Flynn Delaney had been about to really kiss her. That was impossible. Completely irrational. She must have been imagining things, right?
Why on earth would he want to kiss her? She was gawky and awkward and shy, more comfortable with books and her fictional characters than she was with men.
They were from completely different worlds, which was probably one of the reasons she’d had such a crush on him when she was a girl. He represented the unattainable. His mother was a famous movie star, and he was certainly gorgeous enough that he could have been one, too, if he’d been inclined in that direction.
He had been married to Elise Chandler, for Pete’s sake, one of the most beautiful women on earth. How could he possibly be interested in a frumpy, introverted children’s librarian?
The absurdity of it completely defied reason.
She must be mistaken. That moment when he’d kissed her cheek and their gazes had met—when she’d thought she’d seen that spark of something kindling in his gaze—must have been a trick of the low lighting in her entryway.
What would it have been like to kiss him?