He snorted. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” But another voice, Tracy telling him the night before she married his brother, You and Drew are the rarest of finds. Good men.
That was before he had failed his brother and her.
Was there anything left of a good man in him? If there was, why would he even consider leaving Emma here, alone, a woman without power?
Self-preservation.
“You must have had the choice to walk away,” Emma said. “I think when you hold that baby, you can’t hide who you really are. That’s what makes you irresistible—”
He looked into her eyes for a moment, almost felt his heart stop beating. If she found him irresistible they were both in deep trouble.
But she finished her sentence, “—in the baby department.”
He felt his heart start beating again, but was warily aware his reaction to how she had finished that sentence was mixed. Part relief, more regret.
He was not sure he liked the way this was going, because if she prodded him now, he had the horrible feeling he would spill all, tell all. He had done enough spilling for one night.
He gulped down the hot chocolate, set it on the table beside him, got up and stretched deliberately.
“I’m done in,” he said, much more polite than saying I’m done talking, since he’d made a mental agreement with himself to have a truce with her.
Emma said, “Quit fighting it.”
For a horrible moment he thought she had read his mind, seen his weakness, but instead, she said, “Go to bed, Ryder.”
It would have been much less awkward if bed wasn’t right there in front of her, but it was what it was. He crawled in between the sheets of his mattress on the floor and was amazed by how comfortable the bed was, how strangely content he felt despite the restless directions his thoughts had taken tonight.
He kept his eyes closed as he heard her settling on the couch, discouraging himself from looking at her and feeling those unwanted desires.
A desire to connect with another human being.
One over the age of two.
Ha, he told himself sternly. He would be ready to reconnect when pigs flew.
“Good night, Ryder,” she said softly. “Sleep well. I’m glad you’re here.”
Was she feeling the illusion of home, too? Despite all her proclamations of independence was she feeling safer having a man in the house with that storm raging outside and no power?
But then she added sleepily, “I would hate to think of you and Tess out in that storm somewhere.”
He didn’t rationalize with her, didn’t point out to her if they were out in that storm somewhere they wouldn’t be here. She would not even have known they existed.
Instead he thought about it: she was glad they were here for them, not for herself. And she was putting on this big Christmas event for others, not for herself.
Who was doing anything for her this Christmas? The homeless and the needy were coming here, what about her own family? Was she as alone as he was?
“You’re not going to be alone, are you?” he asked, even though he had ordered himself not to. “On Christmas?”
“I told you. Fifty-one confirmed guests.”
He heard something, knew she was holding back.
“A guest isn’t family,” he said.
“And my mother is coming.”
“That’s good.” He wanted to probe something, an uncertainty, he’d heard in her voice, but that was enough of tangling his life with hers.
Troubled by those thoughts, way too aware of her proximity and the soft puffs of her breath as she fell asleep, he finally surrendered, too. But he slept like a cat, alert, one eye open, gauging the fire and the storm noises outside.
Finally, relieved, Ryder noticed gray light seeping into the room through the heavy closed drapes. Morning at last. The fire was embers again, and he could tell by the chill in the room the power was still not on.
He sat up and checked the baby, still asleep.
And then his eyes drifted to Emma. She was wrapped up like a sausage in the feather duvet she had brought down from upstairs, her dark hair sticking up in sharp contrast to it.
In her sleep, her brow was deeply furrowed, as if she could not let go of some pressing worry—probably hot dogs, or bathtubs falling through the floor—and Ryder could feel the concern for her aloneness. The sloping kitchen floor and that crack above the window in that room upstairs meant something was going on with the foundation. The door chime hadn’t sounded right, either, and could be an indication of a bigger problem somewhere. This place was obviously too much for her, even before Holiday Happenings—and try as he might he couldn’t quite shrug it off.
Sometime during the night he had cemented his decision to leave here.
Because he had laughed.
Because he had given in, ever so briefly, to the temptation to be a different man. Because you could begin to care about a woman like Emma even if you didn’t want to.
Because he had hoped for something when the word irresistible had tumbled so easily off her lips, and despite the fact she had clarified what she meant, those mist-and-moss eyes had said something else.
He got up quietly, added wood to the fire, went to the window and lifted the drape. For the first time he noticed the difference from last night. It was quiet, now, eerily so, no wind. He noticed the snow and rain had stopped and the horizon was tinged with the indigo blue of a clear day. In the growing light he could see broken branches littering her front yard. A huge limb had missed his vehicle by inches.
The trees dripped blue ice, and the power line coming up to her yard was nearly on the ground it was so heavy with the rain that had frozen on it.
But the storm was over.
He had to go. But where, with all the roads closed?
Anywhere.
Other travelers had to be stranded. Churches were probably offering temporary shelter, recreation centers. Roads never stayed closed for long. He was sure they would reopen today, probably within hours now that the storm was over.
He went into her kitchen, the floor freezing on his bare feet, but he opened drawers until he found a screwdriver. He was fixing the front-door handle when Emma woke up.
“Morning.”
He turned and looked at Emma. She was stretching, her hair sticking straight up.
She pulled back the duvet she had slept under, he could see the pajamas, pink flannel, little pink-and-white angels on them.
“The storm’s over,” he told her.
She cocked her head, listened. “Ah,” she said, “the sweet sensation of survival.”
“Your yard is a mess.”
She came and stood beside him, surveyed the destruction being revealed by the growing morning light. Her shoulders drooped. “The pond probably looks the same way. How am I going to get that cleaned up for Holiday Happenings?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
She looked annoyed. “I was talking to myself, not expecting you to volunteer. And you don’t have to fix the door, either.” She made a grab for the screwdriver, but he held it away from her.
“If you could refill that kettle and put it on the fire, I can heat something up for the baby. Not to mention get a coffee into you. Sheesh. Prickly.”