Jingle Bell Bride

“Why don’t you get down?” Michael’s deep baritone warmed the words, he really was a good guy. “I’ve got this.”

“You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. Sorry.” She might not like heights, but no way was she quitting. Not when she’d made up her mind to do something.

Determined, she trained her gaze on the gutter above. Three steps more. Two. Safely at the top she slowly uncoiled the string of lights and hoped Michael didn’t notice how much her hands were shaking.

Chapter Three

Michael nudged the small plastic hanger into place, tried to keep his attention on the eight or so inches of white stuff piled precariously on the roof over his head and failed. His gaze slid to the woman clutching the gutter lip with what appeared to be all her strength. Why didn’t she just let him do this? “Are you always this stubborn?”

“Usually more.” If she gripped the gutter any tighter, something was going to break. “Rumor has it, stubborn is my middle name.”

“Hey, mine too.” His own laughter surprised him, causing him to almost lose his balance. The ladder wobbled, his hand shot out, hit the snow on the roof and a cold avalanche rained over him. Icy stuff hit him in the face, slid down his coat collar and kept coming in a glittery white fall, blinding him. He probably looked like an idiot.

“Good one,” she quipped. “Now who has a death grip on the gutter?”

“I’m usually more suave than this. Smooth. Debonair.” He batted snow out of his face.

“I noticed that the first instant we met.” Humor laced her words.

She had to remind him of that, didn’t she? Not that he could see her just now because another wave of falling snow smacked him in the face.

“Need any help?” she asked.

“No.” Debonair he was not. He blinked snow out of his eyes. “This looked easier from the ground.”

“It always does.”

The avalanche finally stopped and he ran a gloved hand over his eyes, able to blink. Ice clung to his lashes and gleamed in the sun so when he looked at her, she seemed framed by light, surreal, a vision come to life.

“Maybe it would have been smarter to let the sun melt some of this before we started, but did I think of it? No.” She clipped her string of lights into the plastic hook. “My sisters wanted to get the lights up before Dad gets home.”

“So he’s usually on light duty?”

“True, but one of us always helps him. The job goes faster that way and besides, you can’t help wanting to spend time with Dad.”

“So this time you want to surprise him?” He cringed when a trickle of ice slipped between his shirt and his collarbone.

“Something like that. See, Dad always put up the lights with Mom’s supervision. Since she’s been gone...” There were no words to describe the loss. She focused on stringing the lights, getting them to sit just right in the clips. “Mom was big into Christmas. Lights and decorations and Christmas carols playing. The works.”

“You don’t want your father to feel her loss while he’s hanging the lights.” Understanding softened his granite features and warmed the low notes of his voice. “It’s easier to go on when you don’t stop to feel the loss.”

“Exactly.” Interesting that they had this in common. She didn’t like that her estimation of him crept up a notch. “Is that what you do? You try not to feel the grief?”

“I try to forget it. Bury it. Psychologists might not agree, but it works for me.”

“Me, too. Last Christmas we couldn’t put up as much as a tree.” She thought of the seasonal cheer, the festive joy, the touches of caring her mother had brought to the holiday and to her family. “This year, we’re trying to do Christmas the way she would have wanted.”

“It’s a tough thing to do. Two Christmases have gone by for us, this will be our third.” He hung another length of lights. “It was hardest on Macie.”

“I’m so sorry for that. Do you have other family in the area?”

“My folks live in town. They moved here after I set up practice, to be closer to their granddaughter.” The wind gusted, ruffling his sandy brown hair. “Mom always does Christmas right, and she can cook. Can’t wait for her turkey and stuffing.”

“My mom was a good cook, too. But me? Not so much.” She clipped more lights in place, ignoring the fact that her fingertips were numb with cold.

“You? A bad cook? I don’t believe that. You look like there’s nothing you do badly.”

She would not be charmed by his compliment and a hint of a dimple. “I’m too clinical. I approach cooking like a lab experiment. Exact measurements with the potential of anything going wrong.”

“But the outcome is edible.”

“Mostly, but it’s been frozen dinners for years. Med school, intern, resident. No time.”

“I remember well.” His gaze met hers, zooming across the distance between them as if there were no distance, as if they were no longer strangers, as if he were way too close.

Shyness swept through her and she jerked her gaze away. Her forearm bumped the gutter and snow tumbled onto her head, momentarily blinding her.

“Don’t worry.” His words carried on the wind. “Eventually the ice melts and then you’re just wet.”

“Something to look forward to.” The snow just kept on coming. She sputtered, held onto the gutter for dear life and thought she heard the rattle of a ladder that sounded suspiciously closer than it used to be. Sure enough, the avalanche stopped and there was Michael so near she could reach out and push him.

“At least the lights look good.” He leaned across the foot and half of space between them to brush snow from her face.

Air stalled in her throat, choking her. Really, she could do it herself, but she didn’t move. She blinked, able to see the shaven texture of his strong, square jaw and flecks of ice blue in his irises.

“Are you okay?” Concern crinkled pleasantly in the corners of those irresistible eyes.

“Sure. That was invigorating.”

“Nothing like a snowy winter’s morning on the roof.” His glove swiped snow away from her coat collar.

That was really nice of him, but he was making her dizzy. Somehow she managed to draw in air. “Thanks, but I’m not Macie.”

“Right, got it.” He handily grabbed the end of her lights dangling from the clip and plugged his string in. The icicle lights dangled and glowed, lovely even in the daylight. “I just didn’t want you falling.”

“I appreciate that.” She cleared her throat, surprised that her words came out a little strained. “Falling would be a bad thing for many reasons. Just think, if I landed in the rosebushes, they’d never be the same.”

A dog’s happy bark rang like a bell from beneath the porch, scattering sparrows away from the bird feeder. Dee pranced down the steps and down the walkway, head held high, tongue lolling, as excited as if she were leading a parade down Main Street. Macie followed with a few telltale cookie crumbs on her coat, flanked by Sara Beth. Meg shut the front door and trailed down the porch steps after them.

Finally, her sisters had come to rescue her. Not that hanging around with Michael Kramer had been so terrible. No, she certainly couldn’t say that. “Looks like your daughter has come looking for you.”

“So I see. I guess that’s my cue to leave, unless you want me to stay and help.”

“Oh no, I have plenty of help, if I can motivate my sisters, and you have a daughter to take care of.” She gripped the top rung and moved carefully down one step and the next. “Plus, I’m anxious to see what she’s done to her cast. Let me see, Macie.”

“It’s all Christmassy now.” The girl held her arm up for all to see. “They had lots of stickers, Dad. It was awesome.”

“But in the end we went with an animal and Christmas theme,” Sara Beth explained, folding a lock of straight dark hair behind her slim shoulder. “Doesn’t it look stunning?”