Mistletoe Matchmaker

He set the knife down and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand before turning his watery gaze to his handiwork. “How would I know? I told you I’ve never chopped onions before.”

“Good point.” She gazed at the pile of goo that used to be an onion. “Um…you may have overchopped a bit, too.”

He considered the slush pile on the cutting board, his brow line hoisted high. “You think?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Definitely. They’re supposed to be pieces, not…mush with skin.”

He reached for the other half of the onion, his mouth curved into a wry smile. “You want me to try again? I’m game if you are, although we might end up onion-less.” His eyes lit up. “Better yet, I’ll do an internet search on how to chop onions.”

She shook her head. “No, no need to bring your computer into this. I’ll do the chopping. Spaghetti sauce just wouldn’t be right without onions.” She glanced around and saw the antique table in the dining room off the kitchen. “Why don’t you work on setting the table.”

He set the onion down. “Now, that I can do.” He picked up the knife and presented it to her with a flourish. “Your knife, Miss. Use it well.”

She played along and accepted his “gift” with an exaggerated curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Turning her attention to the onion, she chopped it on the cutting board next to the sink. She surreptitiously watched Grant rattle around the kitchen, gathering up the utensils and plates they’d need.

She couldn’t help but notice how he moved with an easy male grace she found fascinating. Yes, he’d told her he spent a lot of time at his computer. But it was clear he spent some time working out, too. He was in terrific shape…um, for a computer nerd.

Suddenly, the knife bit into her finger with a sharp sting. “Ow!” She dropped the blade and jerked her hand away, looking down at the bleeding gash on her finger.

Dizziness engulfed her; the sight of blood had always made her woozy.

Grant was at her side in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

At least she’d had the presence of mind to thrust her hand out over the sink and underneath cold water rather than bleed all over Rose’s kitchen. “I…cut my finger.” Because I was staring at you.

“Let me see,” he said, gently taking her hand.

She leaned his way for support, but squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth gritted. “I can’t look.”

“You’ve cut yourself pretty good,” he said after a few moments, his voice laced with concern. A pause. “Keep your hand over the sink, okay? It’s bleeding a lot.”

She did as she was told, biting her lip against the fiery pain. Something dry engulfed her throbbing finger.

“I’m stopping the bleeding with a clean towel,” he said.

“Okay,” she said shakily. The ground tilted and her legs sagged.

He put one arm around her and guided her to the nearest kitchen chair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

She nodded as she sat. “Thanks. The sight of blood always gets to me.”

He hunkered down next to her, still holding her towel-wrapped hand. “How’s that?”

“Better,” she replied, relaxing back in the chair. “My dizziness is passing.”

“Good.” Looking at her swaddled hand as he rose, he said, “Let’s leave that on while I find the first-aid kit.”

“Okay,” she replied, taking a hold of the towel. “Check the linen closet in the hall. Rose keeps a lot of toiletries and stuff like that there.”

“Will do,” he said, leaving the kitchen.

While he was gone, Molly clenched her teeth at the pain in her index finger. Would she need stitches? She hoped not.

But she would need to quit staring at Grant.

A few moments later he returned, a bright orange first-aid bag in his hands. “Found it.”

The concern in his eyes gave her tummy a little flip.

He sat down in the chair opposite her and reached out to take her injured hand. “Let’s see what we have.” Gingerly, he unwrapped the blood-stained towel from her hand.

Molly kept her gaze averted, flinching at the pain zinging through her finger.

She felt him lean in. “It looks pretty superficial,” he said. “I’ll just put some antibiotic ointment on it, bandage you up, and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She peeked at her finger and her stomach heaved. She quickly turned away. “You sure it isn’t worse? It feels like I gouged it pretty good.”

He moved his chair, and himself, closer, then bent over her finger again, his gaze locked on her injury. “I’m positive. I know it hurts, but it isn’t too bad.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor Roderick,” she said in a teasing tone, trying to distract herself from the pain.

He chuckled, glancing at her, his mouth curved up at the corners. “I’m no doctor, but I did have first-aid training in college. Will that do?”

“That’ll work,” she replied, doing her best to ignore his attractive smile.

“Good.” He grabbed the ointment and gently dabbed it on her cut. Then he picked up a roll of gauze, unwound a length of the bandage material and cut it with the scissors he’d found in the kit.

As he worked to take care of her, Molly looked down at his bent head, noting his long eyelashes and sculpted cheekbones. Yes, he was one handsome guy. And caring and gentle, too.

Pulling her interested gaze away, she let him finish tending to her cut, doggedly refocusing her attention on her goal at hand—to figure him out so she could match him up with one of the many single and wonderful women in town. Maybe Phoebe…

After her finger was bandaged up tight, Molly was grateful Grant helped her finish making dinner. Clearly, he didn’t have that much experience in the kitchen, but he took direction well and did a good job for a rookie.

Soon they were seated at Rose’s antique dining room table, heaping plates of spaghetti before them.

“This looks—and smells—fantastic,” Grant said, inhaling deeply. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time.” Not surprising, given how hard he was working. One more reason she needed to find him his perfect match.

“Well, then, you were smart to let me stay.” Molly took a piece of garlic bread from the cloth-covered bread basket with her good hand, then passed Grant the salad. “Eat up, there’s plenty. And we made enough so you’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes—she had to admit, she made a mean spaghetti sauce—and then the lack of conversation got to her, thanks to one too many silent, awkward meals with her dad.

Setting her fork on the edge of her plate, she regarded Grant. “So. What kind of project are you doing?”

He took a drink of water and put his glass down. “I’m writing computer code for a new client.”

“So this…code job, it’s very important?”