Chapter 3
The library was a cheery place, if one could be swayed by such sentimental trappings. Rebecca could. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and a freshly cut spruce had been decorated with ornaments and tinsel, a lighted star topping it off. Everywhere was pine greenery, red velvet ribbon and mistletoe.
Any other time it would have been relaxing. Now it wasn’t, because of him. Rebecca folded her hands in her lap and stared into the flames. The man sat on the stuffed sofa on the other side of the room, but she could feel him looking, breathing, emoting. Unrestrained tension rolled off him in huge waves—he didn’t want to be here.
However, Rebecca was undeterred. She had coaxed first-year pledges into teasing conversations, she had bribed six-year-olds into confessing that they’d rocketed pencils into the ceiling tiles. And best of all, there wasn’t a man she couldn’t handle. Maybe a weekend flirtation was the best way to get the old Rebecca back.
“Nasty weather, yes?”
“Um,” he answered, more of a grunt than actual vocal articulation. She almost corrected him, but then thought better. Not in the classroom anymore.
“Where were you going? Family for the holidays?” Judging by the worn black cowboy boots, he didn’t look like the “family for the holidays” type, but then, she was the poster child for the “family for the holidays” look, and she was no fan of the experience. That’s what happened when you trapped twenty-three Neumanns into a two-bedroom house. Actually it would have been okay except for Uncle Edgar, who never quite seemed all there, and talked twenty decibels too loud for average human ears.
“I’m heading to Canada.”
“French, as a language, is severely overrated. You should consider Spanish instead. Not only more practical, but the climate is warmer, too.”
His face was set like granite. An even bigger challenge. She cocked her head, smiled and she saw something flicker in the granite.
“You have family around here?” he finally asked.
“In Stafford Hill, Connecticut. This is a chance to get away for a while. Do some thinking. Maybe skiing,” she lied. Everything sounded better than “I just got fired from the only job I’ve ever wanted, and actually I’m hoping to meet someone new.”
He looked around the library. “Nice.”
“I thought it sounded like an adventure,” she answered, as if she were an adventurous soul. Oh, she, who brought eight pairs of shoes, all with three-inch heels (designed to show her short legs off to best advantage).
“Some adventure,” he muttered.
“You don’t want to be here?” she asked, going for the obvious. Better to understand the hostility and embrace it. Resolving conflict was a key job requirement when handling six-year-olds, and apparently surly men.
“Stuck.”
“There are worse places to be stuck,” she answered.
“Name one.”
“Siberia.”
This time he almost cracked a smile, not much more than a quirk of his lips, but mentally she cheered. Okay, the old Rebecca was coming back. She wasn’t beaten down. She could feel it.
Normally she didn’t try so hard, but the dark, somber eyes struck a raw place inside her. They were eyes like Pepper Buckley’s, hollow and ancient. The pain there was like a loud ringing inside her head. Not that there was anything she could do, but she couldn’t leave it alone.The silence grew longer until a couple wandered into the room. Newlyweds, by the way they were ignoring the rest of the world. Hand in hand, eyes glued to each other. Until they spotted the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. Mistletoe made Rebecca happy, no question, because she was a world-champion kisser, and had parlayed an “accidental” mistletoe kiss into a full-blown relationship more times than she could count. However, watching others in the midst of moonstruck happiness wasn’t really her thing. She was way too competitive.
The woman looked up at her lover, quirked a brow in invitation and then they kissed. Long, longer, endlessly, everlastingly, infinitely, skin-flayingly long. Thankfully no tongues looked to be involved. Rebecca felt her face bloom in uncharacteristic hotness.
She sneaked a peek at the room’s other occupant, to see if he noticed, to see if he was uncomfortable, to see if he was getting turned on. He wasn’t looking at her, he was staring fixedly at the fire, which was somehow worse. He was ignoring her.
Quickly Rebecca looked away before he saw her staring at him, and then he would think that she was the desperate type—which she wasn’t normally.
The couple broke apart, took a cup of cider (which they shared) and wandered out, leaving Rebecca in an interminably fidgety state. She crossed her legs together and tried to look casual. Nearly an impossibility, but four summers of charm school training made every impossibility a possibility.