Their Christmas Wish Come True

Of course, Kirsten had never actually assembled one of the trikes, though she had put together lots of other toys.

Still, honesty prevented her from claiming she knew how to assemble the trike.

“I can read directions,” she said regally.

He yanked open the box, rifled through it, handed her the directions.

There were two pages of incomprehensible drawings, all clearly explained…in Japanese.

Her lips twitched, then she snorted, and then she laughed. She looked up to see the faintest smile toying at the edges of his lips, probably because of the snort!

“How about if we order a pizza?” he said, “and work together on the trikes?”

“Mr. Brewster—”

“Michael.”

“I don’t even know you.”

He pondered that for a moment. “Are you scared of me?”

Terrified!

“Do you want me to fill out an application? You can do a security check. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

It was the coming back part that terrified her.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said stiffly. She meant about him coming back tomorrow.

“It’s not ridiculous. You should be checking out people who come to work here, even volunteers.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time without your help, thanks!”

“Hey, no need to get prickly! I was just trying to look out for you.”

Which was her weakest point. She had grown up believing someday someone would look after her, forever, the way her father had looked after her mother. When her parents had divorced, she had been able to cling still to her dreams—though now they had been slightly tattered. Becky had found the most special man in the world, the baby had come and their love seemed to do nothing but become stronger and better.

And then it had all fallen apart. One second. A little boy in front of a car. A world shattered. A psychiatrist would have a field day with the fact Kirsten’s interest in the fragile porcelain figurines had coincided with the breakup of something that had seemed stronger than steel.

“Hey,” he said softly, “I’m offering to put together tricycles, not a peace agreement for the Middle East. Don’t look so worried. You want a reference? You can phone my neighbor. That’s who told me you might need help. Mr. Theodore.”

“Mr. Theodore’s your neighbor?” she said. “He sent you?”

“Suggested maybe I drop by. How do you know him?”

“We belong to the same book club.”

“Book club. Whoo boy, I should have seen that one coming.”

“Is there something wrong with girls who belong to book clubs?”

He actually grinned. “Yeah, they generally aren’t dancing on the pool table at closing time with a rose between their teeth.”

She should have been insulted, but it was a moment she had waited for without realizing she waited. That grin lit something in his eyes. For a moment she saw that there was fire trapped in all that ice. It glittered, wicked and warming.

She forgot to be insulted. His face, unhampered by grimness, was youthful and boyish and hinted at someone he had once been—full of mischief and laughter, easygoing charm.

“So, why exactly did Mr. Theodore send you looking for me?”

Something shuttered in his eyes, the moment was gone much too quickly. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugged. “I happen to have some time on my hands.”

Yikes! How much time? And why would a healthy-looking young man have time on his hands to give to an organization like hers? Why wasn’t he working? Involved with his own family at this busy time of year? But something told her, anxious as she was to find a flaw in him, not to ask. Not to press him. Not right now.