The Man Under The Mistletoe

“His room is right across from yours. I’m sure he’ll be happy to look in on you and say good night.”

“Maybe he could tuck me in tonight instead of you.” Chase turned to Matt hopefully.

Matt nodded. “Of course. I’ll be in my room working on a story. Just come and get me.”

Rosie looked just a little injured, but smiled at Chase when he hurried off. The smile vanished, though, when she turned off the television with the remote and confronted Matt. “You let him have a banana shake, didn’t you? I saw that guy look pass between you.”

What the innocent Chase didn’t know, Matt thought, was that women had long ago broken every code men had developed to keep things to themselves. “Yes, I did,” he replied calmly. “If he gets sick during the night, you’ll be back in the guest house and I’ll be right across the hall from him. So I don’t see that you have anything to worry about.”

“Except the very fact that you let him do something you’re pretty sure will make him sick,” she said judiciously.

“He made the choice,” Matt argued calmly, “and understood that was a possibility. He said he didn’t care because then he’d have had his two favorite things together.”

“As the adult…” she countered, drawing closer to him. She did it only in anger, but it revved his pulse, anyway “…you’re supposed to help him understand that he should do what’s best for him.”

“Considering he’s an orphan living with a bunch of women who love him very much but are all a little eccentric and overprotective, I thought the momentary pleasure of having hot buffalo wings and a banana shake together was better for him than ordering something sensible.”

“You always have made decisions the easy way,” she accused.

He was in little doubt what she meant. When she tried to turn away from him to go back to her cereal, he caught her wrist to hold her there. He saw anger flare in her eyes, but he thought he caught a glimpse of something else for an instant. Then it was gone.

“If I made decisions the easy way,” he said, holding on to her when she tried to pull free, “I’d have made an excuse when Francie called and asked me to come. But I’m here. I knew you’d take every opportunity to blame everything that happened on me, but I came, anyway.”

“I hate you, Matthew DeMarco,” she said feelingly.

She looked and sounded completely sincere. But he knew her. He heard that subtle, sad little sound under the harsh declaration, felt the energy in her body drawing her to him even as she tried to pull away.

“No,” he corrected. “I don’t think you do.”

She yanked away from him and stormed off.

He knew her. That didn’t mean he understood her.

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE FRONT ROOM of her shop, surrounded by the male members of the wedding party, Rosie studied the fit of their tuxes. Though Derek and his brother had been carefully measured for them, and Matt had assured her in a fax that his measurements for the tux he wore at their wedding remained the same, she wanted to be sure there were no last-minute surprises.

Despite the animosity between them, she could appreciate how wonderful Matt looked in his tux. Not only did he have the ideal broad-shouldered and lean-hipped frame, but his rugged good looks were lent an urbane maturity she didn’t remember in him.

On the job, he’d always been rough and ready, no subject too mighty or intimidating to tackle, no detail too small to track down. At home, he’d worn old jeans and sweatshirts while he worked on the house, the lawn, the car. That was what had appealed to her about him in the beginning—he’d been an intellectual with the body of a quarterback.

Francie’s groom, Derek, on the other hand, was tall and very slender, and the tux gave a sort of polish to his thin-faced, bespectacled self. His brother, Corin, an inch shorter, more thickly built and five years married, was so cheerful and funny that he’d have looked good no matter what he wore.

“Everyone comfortable?” Rosie asked, walking around them, checking length of sleeves, leg, and smoothness across the shoulder.

“No,” Derek complained, pulling on the small bow tie at his neck. “I wanted to get married on the beach in shorts and sandals.”

“It’s December in western Massachusetts,” she reminded him, pulling his arm down to see if she could adjust the tie. “There’s no beach and there’s snow on the ground. You’d freeze to death.”

He tipped his head backward while she worked. “I was thinking in terms of Florida or Hawaii. But Francie thought getting married somewhere else might upset your mother.”

“I couldn’t have flown to Hawaii, anyway.” Corin did a turn in the three-way mirror. “I have a mortgage and pediatrician bills.” His many reflections grinned at his brother. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted to get married without me.”

“True. Ah, that’s better.” Derek breathed a little easier as Rosie loosened his tie. “I’m sure this is best, all in all. I just hate the fuss, you know?”

“Women are about fuss,” Corin said as Rosie drew him forward to stand beside Derek. “You’d better just resign yourself to that now. And once you have children, there’s no going back, fusswise.”

Rosie tuned out the children remark, refusing to let her brain hold on to it, and did one last walk around the men to make sure everything was perfect. But she was aware of Matt shifting his weight, and when she walked around them to stand back and take in their appearance one last time, she noted the grim line of his jaw, his unfocused gaze.

When she stood in front of him, he refocused on her, and for one split second they looked into each other’s eyes. She saw his pain and knew that he saw hers, though she tried not to feel it. But, however unwittingly, they shared the moment.

Then Corin went on about teething and sleeplessness and the moment was gone.

“You all look very handsome,” Rosie said finally. “And contrary to what usually happens, your tuxes seem to be perfect fits. Take them with you, but please don’t let them get rumpled.”

“What time’s the rehearsal dinner tonight?” Corin asked. “Katie’s excited about a night out without the kids.”

“Seven o’clock,” Derek replied. “Yankee Inn. Same place we’re having the reception, just in a smaller room.”

“Right. Okay.”

Corin and Derek went back into two of the three dressing rooms. As Matt headed toward the third, Rosie noticed what appeared to be a small split in the seam of one of the sleeves. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. She was so into her wedding-planner mode that she forgot for a moment what touching him might do to her.

As she explored the split seam to see if it went through to the lining, she felt the hard ridge of his shoulder, the warmth through the fabric of the flesh and blood that covered it. She saw the broad expanse of his back, the wiry dark hair at his nape, the shirt’s starched, white collar pressing into his neck.

Though he didn’t move a muscle, she was suddenly aware of the tension in him. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Finally, impatient with herself, she dropped her hand from his arm and said a little sharply, “The collar looks tight. It’s cutting into your neck.”

“Formal clothes are always uncomfortable,” he replied quietly, turning to her, her change of mood noted in his eyes. “It’s not as though I’ll be in the tux that long.”

“Still, it doesn’t have to be uncomfortable. I’ll have a larger one overnighted to the house from Boston. You told me your measurements hadn’t changed.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been working out a little, but all my regular clothes fit.”

“Yes, well, so many fabrics have stretch and give today that you probably wouldn’t have noticed. Just leave the tux in the dressing room so I can fix that small tear.” She paused. “Uh, do you remember where the Yankee Inn is?”

“Of course.”

“Francie will expect to see you there.”

“I’ll be there. Want me to drive?”

“I’ll be working late, so I’ll leave from here. But you can drive Mom, Aunt Ginger and Chase.”

He accepted that for the dubious honor it was. “I don’t suppose you’re going to want to dance with me once we get there.”

“No, I won’t.” She thought she sounded firm, though she was still a little unsettled by his nearness, and surprised that he’d even suggest they dance. “Please save us both the embarrassment of doing anything to make it look as though we’ve remained friends.”

“Then please don’t touch me anymore,” he said with the same firmness. “And how is it going to look to the wedding guests if we’re at war throughout the day tomorrow?”