Still in her pj’s and slipper socks, Holly fidgeted with one of the red-and-white floral place mats, rather than with her keyboard. Her gaze lingered on the fireplace only a few feet away with its crackling red-and-blue flames—far easier on the eyes than the white page of a nearly blank document.
With a frustrated grumble, Holly shoved her hands through her already rumpled hair, and murmured, “What is your problem?” But she knew the answer, the reason for her distraction—at least for today’s lack of production. She had no excuse for the many other unproductive days. Cole’s kiss, his touch, his invitation to see him again tonight—all were wreaking havoc on her mind.
A knock sounded on the door, saving her from the reality of the keyboard. Her mother poked her head in the door. “Hey, sweetie,” she said. “I’m not interrupting some great creative moment, am I?”
Holly snorted as she waved her mom inside. “I don’t even remember what a creative moment feels like.” She slumped against the cushion tied to the chair’s back.
Margaret stepped inside, holding a large Tupperware container in her hands. “You just got here. Give it time.” The wind caught the door and flung it wide open. The winter elements charged through the opening. “You could always hop on Dad’s snowmobile and hit the trails out back. That’ll clear your head.”
Holly rushed forward to yank the door shut, the cold bite of winter slicing through her thin tank top. She’d enjoyed the miles of country trails surrounding the house in her youth. Her Texas blood was just too thin for that now. “No to the snowmobile. I’m so out of practice, I’d probably skid right into the iced-over duck pond.” She hugged herself as she turned to her mother, teeth chattering. “Good gosh, it’s cold out there.”
“Record-breaking cold this year is the word on the television.” Her mother disposed of the Tupperware on the countertop and then removed her gloves and her hat, and shook out her long silver hair. Smiling, she opened the container on the counter and displayed the scrumptious, chocolate-pecan bread inside. “I brought you some motivation.”
“Oh my God, you didn’t! I love that stuff. I’m going to gain ten pounds on this trip, I can tell already.”
“Brought the lemon butter you love, too,” Margaret bragged, slicing the bread and retrieving two plates from the overhead counter. “Let’s go sit and chat. I’ve missed my oldest daughter.”
Holly reclaimed her chair, happily accepting her plate. After spreading the slice with lemon butter, she took a bite. She shut her eyes in pure delight. “Oh yeah. Perfect.” Before last night she might have called it better than sex. Laughter bubbled from Margaret’s throat. “I’d put all of Grandma’s recipes together for the family, but no one but me cooks. I guess cooking for one doesn’t make much sense.”
“Don’t start with the marriage-settling-down talk, Mom,” Holly admonished, “because right now, finishing this book is the only thing on my mind.” And having the orgasm with Cole she’d missed the night before.
“I worry about you down there in Texas all alone,” Margaret stated.
“I have high standards,” Holly commented, patting her mom’s hand. “Grandma and Grandpa were so happy. You and Dad are obviously happy.” She couldn’t resist teasing. “You can’t even check a pie without him by your side. And here I wondered what you two would do with all your time after retirement.” After two decades of teaching at the nearby college, they’d both retired this past August.
“Oh good gosh, Holly,” Margaret said, blushing like a schoolgirl. “Please don’t say anything to the rest of the kids. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I . . . well.” She waved her hands a bit helplessly. “Your father has just been so darned . . . feisty.”
Holly’s lips quivered with a hint of a smile as she held back laughter. “A little ‘Viva Viagra,’ as the commercials say, Mom?”
“Holly! ” she exclaimed. “Stop that. And why must you assume Viagra is involved? Give your mom some credit, will you?” She managed a serious look all of two seconds before they both exploded into a good minute of laughter. Margaret wiped her watering eyes. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation with my daughter.”
“Your thirty-year-old daughter,” Holly reminded her. “I’m way past little girl and more than a little pleased to see you and Dad happy.”
Margaret grew serious. “Your father was hurting after Grandma died. But we stumbled onto love letters that Grandpa had sent Grandma and read them all together. It sparked something in us.” She shrugged. “Or maybe it was the wish I made on Grandma’s ruby. She always said it was magical.”