Brenda Harlen – Merry Christmas, Baby Maverick! (страница 10)
“You said she used to make them,” he noted. “She doesn’t anymore?”
“She makes us do it now. She decided that since we eat most of them anyway, we should know how to make them.”
He nudged the plate toward her, silently urging her to take a cookie. She broke the leg off one, popped it into her mouth.
“Good?”
She nodded.
“My grandmother used to make gingerbread houses—one for each of the grandkids to decorate. When I think back, she must have spent a fortune on candy, and we ate more than we put on the buildings.” He broke a piece off the other cookie, sampled it. “I wonder if she’d make one for me this year, if I asked.”
“I’m sure she’d make anything you wanted,” Kayla said.
“What makes you say that?” he asked curiously.
“Three words.” She broke off the gingerbread boy’s other leg. “Vanilla almond fudge.”
He smiled, thinking of the plate he’d found on his bedside table—neatly wrapped in plastic and tied with a bow. “She does spoil me,” he admitted.
Kayla smiled back, and their eyes held for a brief second before she quickly dropped her gaze away.
The group of teenagers who had been sitting nearby got up from their table, put on their coats, hats and gloves and headed out the door. There were still other customers around, but no one close enough that he needed to worry about their conversation being overheard.
“Did I do something wrong?”
She looked up again. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I get the feeling that you’re not very happy to see me back in town.”
She sipped her cocoa and shrugged. “Your coming back doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Maybe it does,” he said. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left Rust Creek Falls in the summer.”
She blinked. “You haven’t?”
“I haven’t,” he confirmed, holding her gaze.
“Oh.”
He waited a beat, but she didn’t say anything more. “It would be nice to hear that you’ve thought about me, too...if you have.”
She glanced away, color filling her cheeks. “I have.”
“And the night of the wedding?” he prompted.
He watched, intrigued, as the pink in her cheeks deepened.
“You mean the night we were both drinking the spiked punch?” she asked.
“Is that the only reason you started talking to me that night?”
“Probably,” she admitted. “I mean—I would have wanted to talk to you, but I wouldn’t have had the nerve to start a conversation.”
“And the kiss? Was that because of the punch, too?”
“
“You kissed back pretty good,” he told her.
She remained silent, probably because she couldn’t deny it.
“And then you went back to my room with me,” he prompted further.
She nodded slowly, almost reluctantly.
“Are you sorry that you did?”
She kept her gaze averted from his, but she shook her head.
“I’m not sorry, either,” he told her. “The only thing I regret is that it took me so long to remember what happened.”
“Lots of people had memory lapses after that night—because of the punch,” she said.
“Do you really think that what happened between us only happened because of the punch?”
“Don’t you?”
He frowned at her question. “I don’t know how drunk
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