Merry Christmas, Baby Maverick!. Brenda Harlen

grandparents’ boarding house being centrally located, there wasn’t anything in the town that wasn’t within walking distance. Which included Daisy’s Donuts, only a block over from the high school.

      “We’ll go in my truck,” she said, because driving was preferable to walking even that short distance in the frigid temperatures that prevailed in Montana in December.

      She unlocked the doors with the electronic key fob, and he followed her to the driver’s side and opened the door to help her in. It was a big truck, and she had to step up onto the running board first. He cupped her elbow, to ensure she didn’t lose her balance, and she murmured a quiet “Thanks.”

      By the time he’d buckled himself into the passenger side, she had the truck in gear. Either she was really craving hot chocolate or she didn’t want to be alone with him for a minute longer than necessary. He suspected it was the latter.

      He wasn’t sure if she was sending mixed signals or if he was just having trouble deciphering them. When he’d stepped out of the community center earlier that afternoon and saw her walking past, he’d been sincerely pleased to see her. His blood had immediately heated and his heart had pounded hard and fast inside his chest. And he’d thought that she was happy to see him, too.

      In that first moment, when their eyes had met, he was sure there had been a spark in her blue gaze and a smile on her lips. Then her smile had faltered, as if she wasn’t sure that she should be happy to see him. Which confirmed to him that they needed to talk about the Fourth of July.

      As she parked in front of Daisy’s Donuts, he realized this probably wasn’t the place to do so. Not unless they wanted to announce their secret to all of Rust Creek Falls, which he was fairly certain neither of them did.

      “Why don’t you grab a table while I get our drinks?” he suggested.

      “Okay,” she agreed.

      “Any special requests?” He glanced at the board. “Dark chocolate? White chocolate? Peppermint? Caramel?”

      “Regular,” she said. “With extra whipped cream.”

      “You got it.”

      He decided to have the same and added a couple of gingerbread cookies to the order, too.

      “I thought you might be hungry,” he told her, setting the plate of cookies between them. “Considering that I ate all of your popcorn.”

      “I’m not hungry,” she said, accepting the mug he slid across the table to her. “But I love gingerbread cookies. My mother used to make a ton of them at Christmastime, but there were never any left when company came over because Kristen and I used to sneak down to the kitchen and eat all of them.”

      “You said she used to make them,” he noted. “She doesn’t anymore?”

      “She makes us do it now. She decided that since we eat most of them anyway, we should know how to make them.”

      He nudged the plate toward her, silently urging her to take a cookie. She broke the leg off one, popped it into her mouth.

      “Good?”

      She nodded.

      “My grandmother used to make gingerbread houses—one for each of the grandkids to decorate. When I think back, she must have spent a fortune on candy, and we ate more than we put on the buildings.” He broke a piece off the other cookie, sampled it. “I wonder if she’d make one for me this year, if I asked.”

      “I’m sure she’d make anything you wanted,” Kayla said.

      “What makes you say that?” he asked curiously.

      “Three words.” She broke off the gingerbread boy’s other leg. “Vanilla almond fudge.”

      He smiled, thinking of the plate he’d found on his bedside table—neatly wrapped in plastic and tied with a bow. “She does spoil me,” he admitted.

      Kayla smiled back, and their eyes held for a brief second before she quickly dropped her gaze away.

      The group of teenagers who had been sitting nearby got up from their table, put on their coats, hats and gloves and headed out the door. There were still other customers around, but no one close enough that he needed to worry about their conversation being overheard.

      “Did I do something wrong?”

      She looked up again. “What are you talking about?”

      “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I get the feeling that you’re not very happy to see me back in town.”

      She sipped her cocoa and shrugged. “Your coming back doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

      “Maybe it does,” he said. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left Rust Creek Falls in the summer.”

      She blinked. “You haven’t?”

      “I haven’t,” he confirmed, holding her gaze.

      “Oh.”

      He waited a beat, but she didn’t say anything more. “It would be nice to hear that you’ve thought about me, too...if you have.”

      She glanced away, color filling her cheeks. “I have.”

      “And the night of the wedding?” he prompted.

      He watched, intrigued, as the pink in her cheeks deepened.

      “You mean the night we were both drinking the spiked punch?” she asked.

      “Is that the only reason you started talking to me that night?”

      “Probably,” she admitted. “I mean—I would have wanted to talk to you, but I wouldn’t have had the nerve to start a conversation.”

      “And the kiss? Was that because of the punch, too?”

      “You kissed me,” she said indignantly.

      “You kissed back pretty good,” he told her.

      She remained silent, probably because she couldn’t deny it.

      “And then you went back to my room with me,” he prompted further.

      She nodded slowly, almost reluctantly.

      “Are you sorry that you did?”

      She kept her gaze averted from his, but she shook her head.

      “I’m not sorry, either,” he told her. “The only thing I regret is that it took me so long to remember what happened.”

      “Lots of people had memory lapses after that night—because of the punch,” she said.

      “Do you really think that what happened between us only happened because of the punch?”

      “Don’t you?”

      He frowned at her question. “I don’t know how drunk you