A Wedding for Christmas. Marie Ferrarella

reason coming automatically to her lips. “Allergies,” she added for good measure.

      Jorge stopped stirring the giant pot of potatoes he’d already mashed, now warming to perfection, and reached beneath the white tunic he always wore while in the kitchen. He extracted a small rectangular package from his pocket and held it out to her.

      “Here, have one,” he urged. “I take two a day for my allergies. They say to take one, but that doesn’t work for the whole day,” he told her. When she made no effort to reach for the small, over-the-counter medication from him, Jorge held it closer to her. “C’mon, try it, Miss Cris,” he coaxed.

      Embarrassed because she’d lied, Cris shook her head, sinking a little deeper into her untruth. “No, I already took something. Wouldn’t want to mix the two medications, just in case.”

      “No, of course not,” Jorge agreed, although his tone really didn’t tell her whether he believed her or was just playing along so she could save face.

      Just then, Andy, the youngest of the Roman sisters, burst into the kitchen. “Red alert,” she cried. “Hunky contractor guy has just landed in the dining room.”

      Cris caught Jorge looking at her knowingly. “I think that your allergy medication has arrived,” he told her just before he turned back to his work.

      Maybe she should have sent a tray to Shane’s work area, Cris thought. Too late now.

      “He’s an old friend,” she protested to Jorge, not wanting the man to think that anything was going on between Shane and her. She’d dated once in the five years since Mike’s death and had vowed never again.

      Everyone at the inn had watched her one attempt at dating go down in flames when she’d started seeing a man who, it swiftly became evident, wasn’t fit to polish the boots of Mike’s shadow. In addition, he tried to isolate her from her family and felt she wasn’t being strict enough with Ricky. That had been the last straw.

      After that little fiasco, she’d promised herself she would never date again—and if by some wild chance she did, she wouldn’t let anyone at the inn know, so when that, too, blew up on her, she wouldn’t be the object of sympathetic looks and peppy comments that were meant to raise her morale but only succeeded in lowering it.

      “An old friend,” Jorge echoed, then nodded. “The best kind to have.”

      Cris frowned, reading between the lines. “Don’t patronize me, Jorge.”

      He frowned at the unfamiliar word. “I do not know what that means, but I am fairly sure I am not doing what you asked me not to do,” he told her. And then he became very, very serious. “Do not let one mishap make you close yourself off,” he warned. “Breathe with your whole body and soul,” he counseled, obviously building on the allergy excuse she’d given him to explain why she was sighing.

      Cris’s hands were flying as she chopped celery stalks into tiny pieces. The staccato noise went to double time as she told her assistant, “Tell you what. You take care of your body and soul, Jorge, and I’ll take care of mine. Deal?”

      “But of course,” Jorge agreed. “I would never try to argue with you.”

      He wasn’t agreeing at all, she thought. His ironic tone told her as much. But she knew that if she said something to him about it, Jorge would simply feign innocence and somehow turn the whole thing into an object lesson with her being its unwilling recipient.

      She would just have to get used to people looking out for her and worrying about her, she told herself. Everyone at the inn was like family, whether they shared DNA or not.

      “Why do you not take the cause of your allergies his dinner?” Jorge suggested, nodding at the tray she had prepared. “I will stay here and watch over the rest of the cooking for you.”

      His offer was sweet, but if she accepted, she would be attesting that this man was special, someone apart from the others she helped. She was in no way ready for that and in no way was she even remotely searching for it.

      “I don’t need you to watch over anything for me,” she informed Jorge. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

      “That much is true,” he concurred far too readily. “Unless, of course, you wake up and see that spending your life without someone there beside you really is like not going anywhere,” he told her pointedly. “It is not even really living.”

      “I’m beginning to think that working in the inn’s kitchen is the wrong place for you, Jorge. You should be working in a Chinese restaurant, baking fortune cookies and stuffing them with your words of wisdom,” she told him with a laugh.

      She gazed at the man who had been her assistant off and on for the past year and a half. She knew he meant well. But at the same time, he was making things difficult for her.

      “Look, I know you believe you’re helping, but I’ve got to find my own way through things—without help. Okay?”

      “I am just making sure you are able to see the road ahead of you,” he said. “A lot of people lose their way.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised.

      The next moment, she left the kitchen and took a peek into the dining room.

      Shane was sitting at the table.

      And Ricky was sitting on a booster seat right beside him.