Chapter 8

8

Frankie and Adele were both ringing up sales on Tuesday when Brock entered the shop. Frankie watched him strolling toward her, smiling, with mixed emotions. This wasn't going to work, she knew it. She could never feel comfortable dating someone younger than her. And yet her pride wanted her to go out with him again, prove to the world (okay, one particular person in the world) that she still had what it took to hold a younger man.

"You free for lunch?" he asked after her customer left.

"I'm afraid not," she said. She could feel her mother's assessing gaze on her. "I'm having lunch with my sister," Frankie explained, and she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed that she couldn't say yes to lunch.

"How about dinner then?" he suggested.

She hesitated.

Stop this silliness right now , advised her saner self. You don't really have any interest in this man.

I could , she insisted.

No, you couldn't. Too old or too young—it doesn't matter which you pick, either one will end up leaving you. Older men die, and the younger ones find greener pastures.

"I get it," Brock was saying. "You'll still be full from lunch. How about we start with drinks at Carol's Place and see where we go from there?"

Frankie rarely went out for drinks—occasionally with Camille or Stef, and in December with Mitch after the Santa Walk, and... There was no other and. Her social life consisted of movie nights, family time and watching cop shows with Mitch. Drinks could be fun.

Adele didn't say anything, but Frankie could feel her watching. "Okay, drinks," she said, and told her saner self to butt out. She had a right to go out for a drink with a nice man if she wanted.

"Great."

"I'll meet you there," she said before he could offer to pick her up.

"I can pick you up, you know," he said. "I promise not to kidnap you."

Or kiss me in your car? The idea was both tempting and scary. The fact that she was nervous about being kissed by a man spoke volumes. She wasn't ready to date.

She was never going to be ready to date.

"So, seven?" Brock suggested.

"Seven," she agreed.

Bad idea , said her saner self.

Probably.

Elinor emerged from the back of the store with a box of nutcrackers to replenish the diminishing display on a table by the window. Her Holiday Happiness apron hid the full effect of her new pants and black sweater, but there was no hiding the face of the new and improved Elinor.

Brock did a double take. Yep, Mission Makeover had been a success.

"What do you think of Elinor's new look?" Frankie prompted loud enough for Elinor to hear.

"Fire," he said, giving Elinor two thumbs-up.

Elinor blushed and murmured a thank-you.

Hmm. Maybe something could end up happening between this new and improved Elinor and Brock if Frankie stepped out of the way.

The bell over the door jingled, and in walked William Sharp. He made a beeline over to where Elinor stood blushing and arranging nutcrackers and said a soft-spoken hello.

He was in the process of asking if Elinor liked nutcrackers when Mitch made his appearance. Probably shadowing his manager. "I was on my way to get coffee," Mitch said. "I thought I'd see if you ladies wanted something."

"I'm good," said Frankie.

"Caramel latte, please, extra syrup," said Adele from her post at the cash register.

"You got it," said Mitch. He turned his attention to where Elinor stood. "Elinor, would you like something?"

"That's so nice of you," she said.

"How about an eggnog latte?" he suggested.

"That would be great," she said.

"By the way, you look very nice today," he added, deepening the blush on Elinor's face.

"Thank you," she said.

"You certainly do," added William. "But then you always look great."

If Elinor's face got any redder, her head would burst into flame.

Frankie smiled, happy to see her employee getting some male attention. William was bound to ask her out by Christmas. In fact, she and William really would be an even better match than Elinor and Brock. They both enjoyed books, and they would probably never run out of things to talk about.

"Guess I'd better get back to the store," said Brock.

"Good idea," said Mitch, and they both left.

William bought a nutcracker, and he, too, left.

"I think you made quite an impression," Frankie said to Elinor.

Elinor was beaming. "And I owe it all to you."

"You have brought about a change in that girl," Adele said later. She and Frankie were in the supply room, unpacking a delayed shipment of holiday home decor items that had finally arrived.

"I think Brock might be seeing her in a whole new light," said Frankie. "Between him and William, it looks like she's getting plenty of interest."

"I think Brock's too busy looking at you to see anyone else." Adele lifted out a metal Santa candleholder. "This little guy is so cute. You can give him to me for Christmas."

"Done," Frankie said, taking the Santa and setting him aside.

Adele returned to the conversation at hand. "I'm glad to see you getting out and having some fun. It's about time."

Was it? Frankie shrugged.

"So quit poking your nose into everyone else's lives and start enjoying your own."

"I'm not poking my nose into anyone's life," Frankie insisted.

"Oh? What do you call taking your employee on a shopping spree?"

"I call that a good deed."

"And now you need to let her find her own way."

"Sometimes people need an extra nudge," Frankie insisted.

"That makeover wasn't a nudge. It was a push. You'd better be careful. You might end up with some competition."

"I'm not competing for anyone," Frankie said.

"That's because you take the admiration of the men in your life for granted."

"Oh, brother," Frankie said in disgust.

"I'm just dropping a word of warning in your ears, daughter dear. Even the most patient of men won't stick around forever."

"I don't need anyone to stick around since I'm not looking to get serious with anyone," Frankie said.

"Maybe it's time you reconsidered."

"Yeah, well, when you do, I will."

Adele chuckled and kept unpacking.

"It would have been nice if Mom's dream had warned me about Corcoran's angry father instead of telling me about a man in a giant box."

"At least this was a hopeful dream," said Frankie. "It beats the one where our dear departed cat was gnawing on her arm."

"This latest one has as much a chance of happening as that."

"I don't know. When it comes to dreams, you and Mom both seem to have a gift. Remember the ones you had of Daddy?"

Stef shrugged. "I was a kid."

"Who was still open to possibilities." Stef had always been a positive, happy person. Frankie hated seeing her turning so cynical. "You can't give up."

"Because I'm going to meet Mr. Wonderful here in Carol?" Stef scoffed. "There are no Mr. Wonderfuls left in Carol. Well, other than Mitch. And Brock. Mom told me you guys went out."

Thank you, blabbermouth Adele. "It's not going anywhere," Frankie said, and picked up her menu.

Stef reached across the table and lowered it. "It's okay if it does. Really. You deserve to be happy."

"So do you," said Frankie.

"You're right. Which is why I'm having chocolate cake for dessert, and I'm not sharing. I want the whole big piece for myself."

Frankie laughed. "That's fine with me."

They gave the waitress their orders, then Frankie returned them to the subject of Stef's love life. "Maybe you should try online dating again."

Stef rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I saw how well that worked for Mitch." She pointed a finger at her sister, reminding Frankie of their mom. "And don't go sneaking and putting up my profile somewhere, or I will keep the present I got you for Christmas for myself. But back to you and Brock."

"There is no me and Brock," Frankie said. "I'm just meeting him for a drink."

Stef studied her. "You know, I can't blame him for falling for you. And I can't blame Mitch for hanging around. You've got the biggest heart."

"Oh, brother," said Frankie, dismissing the compliment.

"No, it's true. You're like a peppermint-scented candle. You make a room better just by being in it." Stef bit her lip and looked at her fancy china plate. "You've always done your best to try to make my life better. I'm sorry I was such a brat about the whole Brock thing."

"We already got that taken care of, so stop. Anyway, if things didn't work out with him, it's because there's someone better for you waiting down the road."

Stef frowned. "The road is too darn long if you ask me. And what if there is nothing down the road? What if all there is ahead of me is a dead end?"

Frankie could see it all in her sister's eyes—the regret over having given so much of herself to the wrong man, the frustration over not finding anyone, the fear that she never would.

She reached across the table and took Stef's hand. "Don't you go there. Don't you dare. You are pretty and fun and smart. And sweet. Well, most of the time," she added, which brought a reluctant smile from Stef. "I know there is someone wonderful in your future. I can feel it in my heart. You hang in there. He will show up. Meanwhile, we have chocolate cake," she said, and that made Stef giggle.

They ate their tea sandwiches and every bit of that chocolate cake for dessert. Frankie picked up the bill for lunch, and Stef left, feeling better.

But Frankie worried that moment of chocolate-induced happiness wouldn't last. If only she knew someone who would be perfect for Stef, if only she could find a way to help her sister get a fresh start on love for the new year.

Their town was not a man desert. There had to be someone, and even if Stef had given up looking, Frankie wasn't going to.

Griff sat in the car line, waiting to pick Corky up from school promptly at five after three. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, trying to figure out the best way to handle the Santa situation. He finally decided there was only one thing to do.

Lie.

Well, sort of lie. A white lie. Okay, maybe it would be more gray than white, but it was the best solution he could think of.

He texted his sister. If Corky asks about Santa tonight, keep your mouth shut.

Yes, sir! came the smart-mouthed reply.

Another letter to Santa was going to get lost this year. Lost and trampled by reindeer. You had to watch those darned reindeer.

When Corky was a little older, they'd have a serious talk about how daddies found mommies...if Griff ever figured that out. Meanwhile, the reindeer would have to take the fall.

The bell rang, and the kids poured out of the school, a swarm of locusts anxious to get home and start devouring every Christmas cookie in sight. And there came Corky, at the end of the swarm, wearing his blue knit earflap hat with the dinosaurs on it, his red parka open and flapping. Griff could already guess what the piece of paper in Corky's hand was.

"I got a A on my spelling test," he announced the minute he was in the car. He handed it over for Griff to see before settling into his car seat.

"You sure did. Good job," said Griff as Corky buckled his seat belt. "Grandma and Grandpa will be proud to hear it." He handed it back, and his son looked at it and smiled.

"Can we FaceTime them and tell them?" asked Corky.

"Sure. As soon as we get home."

"And can we see if Santa got my letter?"

Oh, boy. There it was. "Your letter?"

"My letter I wrote with Aunt Jenn."

"I thought you wanted me to help you write your letter."

"You were too busy," Corky said, already becoming a master of parental guilting.

Griff had always been conveniently too busy when Corky asked. And if he wasn't too busy, it was time for dinner. Or time for Corky to get ready for bed. If he'd known the stunt Jenn was going to pull, he'd never have let her take Corky for the night while he took his staff out for dinner.

"I know he got it 'cause I watched while Aunt Jenn mailed it," Corky continued.

"That doesn't mean he got it. Remember last year? Your letter got lost."

"Aunt Jenn put a extra stamp on it to make sure it wouldn't get lost this year."

Good old Aunt Jenn. "Let's go home and talk to Grandma and Grandpa first. Okay?"

"Okay," Corky said, not quite so excited.

"Since when don't you want to talk to Grandma and Grandpa?"

"I want to talk to Grandma and Grandpa," Corky said. "Aunt Jenn said Santa would have my letter by today."

Santa again. Griff could feel his temper rising.

He tried another tack. "Just because Santa got your letter today, it doesn't mean he's going to answer today."

"Why not?" Corky asked.

"Because he has lots of kids' letters to answer. That takes time. In fact, you might not hear from him. He can't answer everybody."

Corky's face screwed up, and he blinked, a little boy on the verge of tears. "But he brings toys to everybody."

Whoever started this Santa thing should have been forced to eat nothing but dried-out fruitcake for the rest of his life. "Don't worry, I've already talked to Santa and told him what you want."

"You did?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Griff could see the transformation in his son's face. Good. That was taken care of.

"I did," he said.

"A mommy!" crowed Corky, wriggling happily in his seat.

"No, not a mommy," Griff said firmly. "You want a Monster Spotter action game," he reminded Corky. He'd already ordered the thing and had it stored at the office.

Corky's smile tipped upside down, and his lower lip stuck out. Then it began to wobble. "I just want a mommy."

"Son, Santa's not going to bring you a mommy."

"He will if he gets my letter," Corky insisted. "You'll see, Daddy. You want a mommy, too, don't you? Then we can have someone to make dinner for us and bake us cookies."

And smile at us over her morning coffee. Griff felt a catch in his throat. He cleared it. "Santa doesn't bring mommies. He brings toys."

"Aunt Jenn said he might."

Griff could imagine the conversation. Corky looking at Jenn with those big brown eyes, begging her to assure him that Santa, who granted every wish, would hear his request. Softie that she was, she wouldn't have the heart to tell Corky the hard truth. But why the hell did she have to mail his letter? She should have been able to come up with some excuse for why she couldn't.

By the time they got to the house, Griff was in a sour mood. This Santa thing was out of control. What would the saint whose identity got stolen by an old fat guy with a fake beard who everyone practically worshipped think about what modern culture had done to him?

Griff should never have allowed the whole thing to start. He should have told Corky the first time he saw one that Santa was only pretend, that there was no such guy, that those extra presents under the tree were from his hardworking dad who loved him more than anything in the world.

But who couldn't give him what he wanted the most.

Back home, Griff found a snack for his son—the lone apple left in the fridge, starting to get mushy. Time to go shopping. Maybe he'd do that while Corky and Jenn were baking. Corky took one bite and pronounced it yucky. Griff dug out the last remaining snack bag of nacho-flavored corn chips from the cupboard and handed it over.

Then they set up Griff's laptop and made contact with the grandparents. "I got a A on my spelling test," Corky announced, holding up his test for Grandma and Grandpa to see.

"Smart boy, just like his grandpa," said Griff's dad.

"What words did you learn to spell?" asked his mom, and Corky happily rattled them off.

"Teacher says I'm getting good at spelling."

"I should say so, if you got an A," said Grandma. "And what are you boys going to do tonight to celebrate?"

"We're making cookies!" Corky answered.

"You gonna bake some for Santa?" asked Grandpa, and Griff swore under his breath.

"It's too soon to bake cookies for Santa," he hurried to say.

"I wrote a letter to Santa," Corky announced, and it was all Griff could do not to groan.

"Did you? What did you ask for?" Grandpa wanted to know.

"A mommy."

Griff's dad suddenly looked like he'd encountered a hornets' nest and wasn't sure what to do about it. Griff's mom's pleasant smile faded.

"Well, now," she said, stalling.

"I told him Santa doesn't bring mommies," Griff said.

"True," agreed his father. "Santa specializes in toys. I bet he's going to bring you some good ones."

"I only want a mommy," Corky said, and pouted.

"Well, uh," Grandpa said, and scratched his head. "You've got a grandma, and I know she's got some fun stuff planned for when you visit Christmas Day."

"Oh, yes," chimed in Griff's mom. "We're going to have a birthday cake for Jesus, and you'll get to blow out the candles. And Grandpa has a fun new game to play with you."

"And we've got some special presents under the tree," added Griff's dad.

"I just want a mommy," Corky grumbled.

"Right now you'll have to settle for Grandma and Aunt Jenn," said Griff.

Corky's expression didn't change.

"We'll have a lovely day together," his grandmother promised. "And if we get some more snow, you and Grandpa and your daddy can build a snowman."

"Or have a snowball fight," put in Grandpa.

The way his son was scowling at him, Griff was sure Corky was envisioning taking him down with a snowball.

"Let's say goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa. Aunt Jenn will be here soon," said Griff. "Why don't you go watch for her?"

Corky said a subdued goodbye and then dragged himself off to the living room to perch on the couch and watch out the window for his aunt.

"Guess I shouldn't have said the S word. Sorry, son," Griff's dad apologized.

"That's okay. You're not the one who started this. It was Jenn. She helped him with the l-e-t-t-e-r ," Griff said, spelling out the word so his son wouldn't catch on.

"I know. She told me. I'm sure there was some little boy manipulation going on," said his mother.

Griff frowned. "I'm sure you're right."

"It'll pass," said his dad. "He'll get busy with his toys and treats and forget all about this."

"I hope so," said Griff.

"Otherwise, you'd better leave town when the Easter bunny comes," Dad advised.

"Don't let him make you feel bad. You're doing a great job," said Mom. "Meanwhile, you all have fun baking."

Griff wasn't going to have fun. He had to go grocery shopping.

As soon as he shut his computer, Corky was back at his side. "Can we see if Santa read my letter?"

What was taking Jenn so long to get there? "We need to eat dinner," Griff said. "Are you hungry?"

"No. I want to see if Santa read my letter."

"Let's eat dinner," said Griff. "Aunt Jenn will be here any minute."

Corky's mouth drooped at the corners.

Griff pretended not to see. He sent his sister a quick text begging her to hurry up and come over, then he pulled out the last box of mac and cheese to pair with the hot dogs they had left in the fridge.

Kaitlyn had never given their son boxed macaroni and cheese mix. She was probably turning in her grave.

Griff shook the box. "Look what I found. Your fave."

Still no smile.

Griff pretended not to see. He got out the near-empty carton of milk and got busy.

They sat down to eat at the acacia wood table Kaitlyn had splurged on when she and Griff first bought the house. "Seats four. Room to grow more," she'd said with a grin.

Instead of growing, they'd shrunk to two.

It wasn't long before Corky was down to his last bite. Griff knew there would be yet another request to look for the permanently deleted letter to Santa. He wished it was summer.

The last forkful went into Corky's mouth, and Griff cast a hopeful look toward the living room window. Yes, that was his sister's car pulling up to the curb. Thank God.

"Aunt Jenn's here. Go let her in."

Corky slid from his seat, put his dish in the sink and then raced to open the door.

"Who's ready to bake cookies?" she asked as she breezed in, carrying two bags full of supplies.

"Me!" Corky began hopping toward the kitchen.

Instant mood change. Good.

Jenn followed him in and started setting things out on the counter. "We've got sugar and flour, molasses and spices and frosting tubes and eggs. Oh, and something for Dad," she said, unloading a six-pack of Griff's favorite IPA.

Trying to bribe her way out of the shithole she was in. He took it with a grunt and put it in the sparsely populated fridge.

"What do you say, Daddy?" prompted Corky.

"I say, ‘Nice try,'" Griff said.

"No, you're supposed to say thank you. You know that."

"You're right, I do. Thank you, Aunt Jenn."

"Can we bake cookies for Santa?" Corky asked.

Jenn shot a tentative look Griff's direction.

"Daddy says it's too soon," Corky added, and his tone of voice said exactly what he thought of Daddy's opinion. Pushing boundaries, his son's superpower.

"It is a little early for that. But we can bake cookies for us," said Jenn. "And we've got a lot to make, so you'd better go wash your hands. With soap."

"With soap," Corky repeated, and nodded, then raced off.

"I'm off to get some food," Griff said to his sister. "Can you manage things here? Without bringing Santa into the picture," he added.

"I can handle the cookies, but I don't know how to do mind control."

"Try," Griff commanded. "And if the subject of Santa comes up, it needs to be done with by the time I get back."

"Are you planning on staying away until New Year's?"

"That's funny. Never mind real estate. You should be a comic." Except there wasn't anything funny about this situation.

By the time Griff had his coat, his son was back in the kitchen, ready for cookie duty. He gave Corky a kiss. "If you're good for your aunt, I'll bring back peppermint ice cream."

"I'll be good," Corky promised.

Griff was barely out of the kitchen before he heard his son ask Jenn, "Can we see if Santa answered my letter?"

Maybe he would stay away until New Year's.

But responsible dads didn't get to run away, so an hour later, Griff was back home with fruit and veggies and bread and peanut butter and milk and tuna fish, along with more mac and cheese and a package of frozen burritos, his favorite go-to dinner.

The house smelled like sugar and chocolate when he opened the door. For a moment he stood there, taking in the smells and reliving the memory of the last Christmas Kaitlyn had spent baking. The vision of her in her pink apron, putting cookies onto a cooling rack, was so vivid for a minute he thought it was real and he'd only dreamed she was gone. He could even see the flour on the tip of her nose.

"Got your favorite cookies," she said.

Only it wasn't her, it was his sister. And there was his son, next to her, seated at the kitchen table, decorating a gingerbread boy. He wanted to cry, but he stuffed down the emotion clawing its way up his throat and walked to the kitchen.

"Smells good," he said as he set down his grocery bags.

He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it over a kitchen chair and took a cookie. It was Kaitlyn's recipe Jenn was using—he knew that—but the cookie didn't taste as good as Kaitlyn's had.

"How is it?" Jenn asked.

"Good," he lied.

"Santa didn't read my letter yet," Corky informed him.

Griffin looked to Jenn. "You looked on the site."

"What could I do? He asked."

Griffin ruffled his son's hair. "Don't worry. Santa and I have got it handled."

Corky bit the side of his lip and went back to squirting frosting on a gingerbread boy. "I just want a mommy."

"That's a mighty fine-looking gingerbread boy you're making," Jenn said to distract him, and Corky grinned and took a big bite.

Griffin helped his sister finish cleaning, then she said goodbye to her nephew, who was settled at the table with milk and one final cookie. Griff walked with her to the door and stepped outside with her on the porch.

"If I hear that he wants a mommy one more time, my head's going to come off," he said.

"Remember how persistent you were about getting a dog?" Jenn reminded him.

"Maybe I should get him a dog. That's on par with getting him a mom," Griff said bitterly.

"You know what I mean."

He ran a hand over his hair. It was a good thing it was short. Otherwise, he'd start pulling it out.

"It'll be okay, bro. Hang in there," she said.

What else could he do? At least he had family helping him.

He thought again of how much time his sister was giving up to help with Corky, and a finger of guilt over losing it with her gave him a firm poke. One minute he was lighting into her, the next he was begging her to come to his rescue with cookies.

"Look, I'm sorry I lost it about the letter."

"I know," she said. "What can I say? Corky's hard to say no to."

Yes, he was.

"It'll be okay," Jenn added, and kissed him on the cheek.

He watched her go down the walk, not a care in the world, and half wished he could trade places.

But then he wouldn't have his son. The boy may have been driving him to distraction, but he loved Corky and couldn't imagine life without him.

All the houses on his street were lit up for the holidays. Except his. Maybe he should get something for the yard—a blow-up Frosty the Snowman or a gingerbread boy. Anything but a Santa.

Back inside the house, he pried his son away from the cookies and took him upstairs for a bath. Then it was time for bed and a story, followed by bedtime prayers.

Griff cringed when his son finished with, "And please don't let Santa lose my letter." Corky's "amen" was emphatic, even as Griff was silently praying, Please let Corky forget about the letter .

That wasn't going to happen, he knew it. He tucked his son in and amended his prayer. Help me.

Frankie and Brock sat in a booth in a dark corner of the town's popular pub, far from the collection of tables by the bandstand where The Grizzly Boys would be playing vintage rock and roll later.

Carol's Place had been around since the seventies. So had its decor. The walls were lined with fake wood paneling, the bar looked like an import from the set of a Western movie, and a couple of the bar stools had rips. But it was well stocked, and the bartenders knew every thirsty customer by name and what they preferred to drink.

The restaurant side of the place served anything and everything fried. The peanuts served gratis in red plastic bowls were responsible for the shells littering the floor. Immediately upon entering, patrons would notice the portrait of "Carol." Carol Clementine, who the town was supposedly named after, had been a buxom woman with neon yellow hair done up in a Gibson Girl bun. According to legend, she ran the first cathouse in the county, which had stood right where the current establishment now was. Come Valentine's Day, people would write messages ( Keep it clean, folks! ) on pink paper hearts, which would get pinned all around the picture. At the moment, a Santa hat hung over the corner of the large frame.

"I'm glad you joined me," Brock said as they worked on their second peppermint martinis.

Was she glad? Frankie wasn't sure. So far they'd shared pictures on their phones and talked about things they enjoyed. Football. They had that in common. He loved to water-ski. She'd never been able to get upright. He assured her he could get her up.

"I don't know," she said. "I think I'm safer on land."

"So do you snow ski?"

"I've been known to," she said modestly. She skied like a demon, loved being up on the slopes.

Correction: had loved being up on the slopes.

"We should go," said Brock.

"I don't ski anymore."

"Why not? Anyone looking at you can tell you're in great condition."

She could feel the prickle of tears and grabbed for her glass. "I haven't skied since my husband died. That was something we used to do together."

Her sister skied. So did Mitch. So did Viola and her husband. Frankie never joined them. The only times she went up in the mountains were when she hiked with Mitch in the summer.

"Oh, man. Did he die on the slopes?"

Their dark corner suddenly seemed darker. She shook her head. "He was hit by a car."

The memory of Viola's husband, Terrill, and his partner standing on her porch, asking if they could come in, rushed over Frankie, fresh as the day it happened. She had to take a deep breath.

"Man, that's awful." Brock fell silent, probably unsure what to say next.

Frankie found herself out of words, too. Her sad memory didn't belong there with them. Yet there it sat. The moment stretched on.

"I'm really sorry," he said at last.

Sorry was in the past. She'd moved on. Theoretically.

He put his big hand over hers. It felt warm and strong. What was there about a man's hand that could make you feel so...comforted?

"Maybe he'd want you to start skiing again," Brock suggested.

Everyone seemed to know what Ike would have wanted for her. She shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe he'd want you to be happy."

"Now you sound like my mother," she joked.

"Just don't say I look like your mother," he joked back.

"You definitely don't look like my mother."

He turned her hand over and traced her palm with his thumb, tickling the skin, starting a tingle running up her arm. "You have a long life line."

"Don't tell me you read palms," she said, trying to ignore the little flame he'd lit in her.

"No, I'm just making stuff up. But I bet you do have a lot of life ahead of you. It'd be a shame to live it alone."

"I'm not alone. I've got my family and friends."

"Mmm," he said, drawing a circle on her palm. It felt so good.

Okay, she had to stop this. She freed her hand and took a drink. "Stef skis," she informed him, making one last effort on her sister's behalf.

"Maybe you should again, too. Frankie, you're so full of life, just bursting to really start living it. I could help you with that."

"This really isn't going to work," she protested. Not as firmly as she should have. Those tingles were spreading.

"You won't know if you don't give it a chance." He slid closer to her.

"Oh, I think I have."

"Not really." He slipped a finger under her chin and turned her face toward his. "I'm not done giving you my sales pitch," he murmured.

"I have great sales resistance," she said.

"Yeah?"

He smelled like cologne, and his peppermint-scented breath was warm on her face. And, oh no, she couldn't let this happen.