Her Mistletoe Magic. Kristine RolofsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I might even read you to sleep.”
She leaned back against the cushioned seat back and closed her eyes. “I do not believe this is happening. This morning I thought I had everything under control.”
“You have another option.”
“I do?” She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t believe it for a minute, especially since his voice held that thread of humor she had begun to recognize.
“I can, somehow, with enormous brute strength, haul you up your stairs and get you inside your home.”
“Sounds good to me. What’s the catch?”
“Then I stay with you. I can fetch and carry and dispense medication and sleep on the couch. You have a couch, don’t you?”
“Nope,” Grace lied, finding the idea of this almost-stranger poking around her home embarrassing. “I only have an antique rocking chair. Oak. Hard as a rock.”
“No big brown recliner with cup holders?”
“Not even a lumpy futon.”
“Well, that settles it, then.”
She reluctantly opened her eyes. They were well on their way out of town, heading away from her place and toward Mirror Lake Road. Her foot throbbed. She was hungry and thirsty and sleepy. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out the M&M’s. It only took a few seconds to open the candy and self-medicate.
“YOU REALLY DO have a ramp.”
“Yeah. You thought I would lie about a ramp?” Nico carried Grace from the neatly plowed driveway toward his house. “The previous owners were a hundred and ten years old.”
“You didn’t have to carry me,” she said, protesting once again. The woman was extremely hard to spoil, he thought. Here he was doing the knight-in-shining-armor routine and she’d rather be limping downhill in the cold, dark night. He wished he could have pulled the car into the garage, but it was filled with a boat, six kayaks and two Jet Skis, all of which belonged to his sisters and their assorted husbands and children.
“It’s fifteen degrees out, in case you haven’t noticed. This is faster.” Plus, he got to hold her in his arms. He shook his head at the sappy thought. He hadn’t held anyone for over seven months, which, of course, no one would believe. His sisters had offered to fix him up with their friends and their friends’ younger sisters, cousins and coworkers, but he wasn’t interested.
He’d been waiting. He was thirty-five and he knew what—and who—he wanted. Maybe he’d get lucky and get his wish.
“I’ve driven past this house so many times,” Grace said. “I always liked how it sat on the hill and looked over the road to the lake. I like all of the houses around here.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He was grateful for the automatic lights that lit the walkway to the back door and bathed it in a light bright enough to help him find the right key. “I’m going to set you down for a second, all right? But hold on to me. I just need to unlock the door.”
“I’m okay.” She clutched the plastic shopping bag and her purse in one hand, his sleeve in the other.
Al’s excited barking began. The mutt didn’t believe in barking at strangers, only people who had keys. The sound of a key in the lock sent him into raptures of joy.
“You have a dog!”
“I do. Does that surprise you?”
“A little,” she admitted. “You don’t seem like the type.”
“I don’t think you know what type I am,” Nico replied. “Brace yourself. He might wag you off your feet.” Al, his aging yellow Labrador mix, blocked the foyer. He woofed and wagged, torn between greeting Nico and his curiosity over the visitor. Nico noticed that Grace properly held her hand out for Al to sniff, but anyone could see that the dog wasn’t the least bit aggressive.
“Hi, Al.” Grace stroked the dog’s head, but she kept hold of Nico’s arm. “Are you glad to see us?”
“He spends most of his days, when I’m working, with my oldest sister. She lives farther up the hill, not far from here. She spoils him rotten. I hired my nephew to take him for walks after school.” Very slow walks, since the dog had grown lame from arthritis. He preferred to hang out by the gas stove and sleep on his heated dog bed. “They bring him home after dinner and he spends his evenings sleeping.”
“You are such a good dog,” Grace told him, and Al wriggled as best he could in response to the compliment.
Nico managed to maneuver Grace onto the bench by the door, next to Al’s water and food bowls, and then helped her remove her coat and the one tennis shoe. She left her socks on, which looked adorably sexy with the sleek red dress.
“I’m going to carry you again,” he said, lifting her into his arms, and for once she didn’t protest. She looked paler than she had at the clinic, more fragile. He needed to get her settled, as he’d promised. They walked down the hall, past the laundry room and a bathroom, then into the kitchen. Al pattered behind them, staying close.
“Your favorite room, of course.”
“Of course.” The original dark wood cabinets stretched to the ceiling, the appliances were from the 1980s, the counter an old cracked white Formica. “I’ll need to replace the countertop and the appliances soon,” he explained. “But I don’t want to change it too much.”
A large battered pine farm table stretched along one side of the room under the expanse of windows, sixteen chairs around it. The table, which once belonged to a nearby summer camp, had been the first thing he’d bought for the house. His sister Marie had found an assortment of wooden chairs at estate sales and had painted them the palest shade of blue.
“Your house is beautiful,” she murmured, gazing into the living area that faced the lake. “It looks like everyone’s fantasy of the perfect Victorian summer home, only better.”
“I haven’t had time to buy much furniture.” Al’s enormous dog bed sat in front of the fireplace, a twin for the one that graced the lobby of the lodge. He owned one tan sofa—a reject from his parents—and an old round coffee table, which had been left there by the previous owners. Two plastic laundry baskets full of toys sat in one corner, an enormous and very bare Christmas tree in the other, though hills of wrapped gifts lined the wall under the windows. Seen through Grace’s eyes, the place would seem pretty sparse. As if he wasn’t doing it justice or something. Suddenly he doubted his wisdom in bringing her here. “Getting the restaurant back up to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Grace interrupted, her voice soft. “You should take your time, buy only what you want, what feels right.”
“Exactly,” he said. That was the way he operated. He waited for exactly what he wanted, which might explain why Grace was here, in his arms and in his house. “It drives my sisters crazy. They’re dying to decorate this place.”
“You have a close family.”
“Close would be an understatement. Three sisters, three brothers-in-law, a nephew, four nieces and another baby on the way. They are constantly in and out of here.”
“Which explains the toys in the living room.”
“And the jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table. Anna is eleven and she’s crazy about them. It can get a little hectic.” But he was never more grateful to his sisters than he was now. Marie and her three children, who lived less than half a mile away, took care of Al. Cathy came every Monday and cleaned, telling him she needed the exercise and the excuse to get out of the house with the kids, who were two and four. Beth, the sister with an MBA, oversaw his investments, handled his money and managed his manager. His parents ran Vitelli’s, with the help of their