Glad Tidings: There's Something About Christmas / Here Comes Trouble

“One more remark like that, and you can buy your own lunch.”

Oliver chuckled. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You’re half in love with me already.”

Emma didn’t dignify that with a reply. They started walking toward the café; Oscar trotted obediently beside them and seemed to know to wait by the restaurant door. Oliver patted his head and assured the terrier he’d get any leftovers.

Emma resisted reminding Oliver that it wasn’t a good idea to feed people food to a dog, but she doubted he’d listen. If she had a dog, she’d feed him only the highest-quality, veterinarian-approved dog food.

Once inside the café, they slid into a red vinyl booth, facing each other. Emma reached for the menu, which was tucked behind the napkin dispenser, and quickly decided on the ham-and-cheese omelet. Oliver ordered the club sandwich.

“How long have you been flying?” she asked.

“Why?” Once again, he sounded suspicious. For heaven’s sake, did the man have some big secret?

Emma sighed. “I don’t know. It seemed like a good conversation starter, that’s all.”

“I’m not interested in being interviewed,” he said curtly. “Besides, I have a couple of questions for you.”

She smiled at the waitress who poured her coffee, then relaxed in the padded vinyl seat. “Wait a minute. You can ask me questions but I’m not allowed to know anything about you? Is that fair?”

“Fair doesn’t matter. I’m your ride home—or I will be.”

“So you think I owe you for that? Oh, never mind,” she said, suddenly tiring of the argument. “Ask away.”

“How long have you been with The Examiner?”

“About eight months—long enough to know I’m tired of writing obituaries.”

Oliver frowned. “That’s the only thing Walt lets you write?”

“For the most part. A month ago he let me cover the school board meeting.” Emma had written what she thought was a masterful commentary on the events. Walt hadn’t agreed, to put it mildly, and had rejected her article in scathing terms. He said she was trying too hard. People were looking for a clear, concise summary, not a chapter from War and Peace. “What I want is a real story,” she told Oliver in a fervent tone, “something I can really get my teeth into.”

“Like fruitcake?” Oliver said, teasing her.

“It’s a start.”

“Yes.” Once again, he was obviously trying to restrain a smile. “What are you going to write about Earleen Williams?”

Emma was mulling that over. “I don’t know for sure. She’s a complex woman. She’s had a number of difficult relationships with men, and—”

“You don’t date much, do you?” he broke in.

Emma stared at him. “Who says?”

“Phoebe.”

“You know Phoebe?” Either her friend had been holding out on her, or Oliver was lying. If Phoebe knew him, Emma was positive she would’ve said so earlier.

“We’ve had a couple of conversations about you,” Oliver admitted, nimbly twirling the fork between his fingers.

Emma found the action highly irritating. Stretching across the table, she grabbed his wrist. “Please don’t do that.”

He grinned; he seemed to do a lot of that around her. “You can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

She toyed briefly with the idea of getting up and walking out. She would have, too, but their food hadn’t been delivered yet. Her stomach won out over her pride.

“How do you know Phoebe and when did you talk to her?”

“We met through … a friend of mine. Phoebe’s a few years younger than me, but I’ve seen her around town. No big deal.” He shrugged. “I stopped in at the office after your visit to the airfield and asked about you. Casually, you know. Phoebe sang like a canary.”

Emma refused to believe it. Phoebe had never mentioned this supposed conversation.

“She said the two of you were hired at the same time and that you kept pretty much to yourself. So what gives?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where’s the boyfriend?”

Emma’s jaw sagged open. “You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

“Men are scum, remember?” His eyes twinkled. “So tell me, what’s happening in the men department?”

“Nothing. I’m a serious writer—well, maybe not yet, but I intend to become one.”

“Being a ‘serious’ writer means you don’t have time for relationships?”

Emma didn’t care for the direction this conversation was taking. “At present, no—not that it’s any of your business.”

“Why not?”

“Are you always so nosy, or is this expressly for my benefit?”

“Both.” He picked up his fork and studied the tines with every appearance of interest.

To Emma’s relief, their plates arrived just then. The waitress set the bill facedown in the middle of the table.

Emma spread the paper napkin across her lap, looked over her meal and lifted her fork. By the time she’d taken two bites, Oliver had wolfed down half his sandwich. She glared at him disapprovingly.

“What?” he asked, apparently perplexed.

“Nothing,” she said, knowing it would do no good to explain.

He munched on a French fry, then glanced across the table at her. “If I asked you out on a date, would you go?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. She didn’t mean to be rude but she could read him like a book. He was her father all over again. Besides, she wasn’t much good at relationships.