Bride Under the Mistletoe: The Magic of a Family Christmas

“When I checked your salary I saw everybody’s. No one in this plant has gotten above a cost-of-living raise in five years. Which is why everybody will be getting a raise similar to yours in January.”

Embarrassment coursed through her. She wanted to faint or die, but knew she couldn’t do either. She fell to the seat in front of his desk. “Everybody?”

“Yes. When I saw those numbers I was actually glad I was forced to take a real look at what was going on here. My dad and I check the big-picture figures when we get our profits every quarter, but we never looked at the details. Your situation forced me to do that.”

“Oh, God.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You don’t trust me. I get it. Personally, man to woman, I’m not to be trusted. I’m not looking for what you want. You probably couldn’t live the way I live. But don’t ever question my business judgment again.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He sat back on Paul McCoy’s tall-backed black leather chair. “I’m not going to tell you it’s okay because it isn’t. But I am willing to forget about it and move on.”

“Thank you.”

“And don’t tell anyone about the raises.”

She looked up, confused.

“You need yours now. Don’t tell me you don’t. But accounting and human resources need time to process everyone else’s. So, on my order, they did yours now. But I don’t want anyone to be offended or upset. So please, keep this all under your hat until everyone’s raise is announced in January.”

She frowned. “But then no one will know you’re the one who authorized the raises.”

He picked up his pencil and glanced down at the papers in front of him again. “There’s no point.”

“Sure there is. It’s Mr. McCoy who’s run such a tight ship that we only got cost-of-living raises. He claimed the plant couldn’t afford more. So when he gets back, he’ll get the credit for giving everyone their raise.”

“This isn’t about who gets credit.” He didn’t even look up. “I was only giving you what you had worked for over the past four years. You may go now.”

Dismissed, Wendy rose. She’d put the last nail in the coffin of their friendship, and felt like a complete fool.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_ef528ee1-7fe7-5f0d-a2b9-2fb0d37520c9)

THAT night, after tucking Harry beneath a soft comforter and kissing him goodnight, Wendy ambled into her living room. In need of a little comfort herself, she made a fire in the fireplace, found a book and curled up on her sofa.

She read for only twenty minutes before the events of the day weighed down on her. She hadn’t meant to insult Cullen. She’d thought she was protecting herself. Which was just more proof that they were too different to get involved. So different she’d seen his kindness as an attempt to buy her favors and embarrassed herself.

Wondering what he saw when he looked at her, at her life, she glanced around his former home. Her sofa and chair were simple beige. The area rug atop the hardwood floors she and Greg had refinished was a modern print in soft yellow, cream and green that brought the room to life. The walls had been painted a pale yellow.

It was a soothing room, a calm room, but it wasn’t elegant. She couldn’t even imagine the kind of home he lived in in Miami. But he hadn’t looked down on her or her things the Saturday he’d stayed with her. He’d joined in her fun with Harry, working to make Harry happy. He’d slept on the floor without complaint and even cooked for her and Harry.

She frowned. Technically, with the exception of kissing her, everything he’d done had been for Harry. When he’d stepped into the conversation with Randy Zamias, when he’d said they shouldn’t wait to tell Harry his father had passed, when he’d volunteered to take them out to dinner—all those things had been for Harry. And maybe he hadn’t been pushy or domineering, simply desperate to help? As out of his element with the little boy as Wendy had been, he’d made a few mistakes.

So had she.

Yet she’d taken everything personally. Forgetting, or maybe not even noticing, that at the office and in their private conversations, he’d always been a perfect gentleman.

Running her hands down her face in misery, she rose from the sofa to make a cup of hot cocoa, but a blood-curdling scream sounded from upstairs. She dropped her book to the coffee table, raced upstairs and burst into Harry’s room.

Sitting in the center of the bed, Harry sobbed. He wasn’t wearing his glasses and she could see the tears that poured down his cheeks. She sat on the edge of his bed and he leaped into her open arms.

“It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Sobs racked his small frame and he clung to her. “No, it’s not!”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m here now. You’re safe.”

“I want Cullen.”

Surprised, she pulled in a breath. Not only did it sting that her comfort wasn’t enough, but also she wasn’t really sure Cullen would come. “It’s late. He’s at his hotel.”

“He said if I ever needed him I could call.”

“I’m sure he meant it but it’s—”

“I want Cullen!”

He clutched her upper arms tighter and pressed his face in her shoulder, his tears wetting her T-shirt.

Wendy stroked his soft hair. She had to at least try. “All right. I’ll call him.”

Cullen didn’t ask for details. Hearing Harry had had a nightmare and was inconsolable, he raced to Wendy’s house. She opened the door before he even knocked. She didn’t mention their argument. He didn’t either. What happened between them was between them. What happened with Harry wasn’t just separate, at the moment it was the only thing that mattered.

“How is he?”

As she led him up the stairs, Wendy said, “Once I called you he stopped crying. So it must have been the right thing to do.”

“Let me see what’s going on.”

He stepped into the little room that had been his own when he and his parents had lived in the house. The bright-blue walls he remembered had been repainted a soothing blue. Trains and dump trucks decorated the comforter. The base of the lamp was in the shape of a football.

Sitting up on the bed, partially covered by the thick blanket and sliding a small plastic car on his thigh, Harry said, “Hi, Cullen.”

He sat on the bed. “Hey.” He ruffled Harry’s hair. “What’s wrong?”

Without looking up, he said, “I had a nightmare.”

“What kind of a nightmare?”

Harry shrugged.

“Monsters?”

He glanced up. “No.”