A Holiday Temptation - Tiffany Patterson Page 0,21

I reach for Mark’s hand. He doesn’t instantly pull away as I fear. Instead, there’s a moment of pause between us. Something heated, pulsating, and familiar passes through the air between us.

He stares into my eyes, searching, as he used to do sixteen years earlier. I do my best to hide my secrets without looking away.

Then it ends there.

Mark pulls his hand away and moves back enough to push my door closed. I give him one final nod before turning my car on and driving off into the night.

“It’s for the best,” I whisper over and over to myself. Not allowing myself to go searching for something that should’ve died a long time ago is for the best. For both me and for Mark.

Chapter 8

“‘Morning, Mama,” I say cheerfully as I enter the kitchen the following Saturday morning.

Despite how I keep telling myself that it’s not good for me to think too much about Mark O’Brien outside of work, I can’t help it. It feels as if some sort of breakthrough has been made at dinner the other night. Though we didn’t see one another in person yesterday, since it was a Friday, we talked over the phone. Sure, most of the conversation revolved around the merger, but Mark also interjected it with telling me he nearly had to beat Suzette off with a stick to keep from eating the rest of his tin of cookies.

I laughed as he told me he went to Desiree’s website and ordered another tin of her mixed cookie order. When I asked if he planned on sharing with his co-workers or his brother, he responded with a resounding, “Hell no. I’ll pass her information along, though, and they all can order their own damn cookies. These are just for me.”

His voice was so indignant that I would even think to ask if he planned on sharing, that I had to laugh. Mark had always been a robust eater. Yes, high school boys are notoriously hungry, especially if they’re jocks, which he was. With a spot on the school’s wrestling and track teams, he ate frequently, but he was picky about where he ate. Unlike other boys who could eat the same fast food every day, Mark’s palette always seemed to be a little more refined, as he opted for a higher level of restaurants.

I woke up with that conversation on my mind this morning, only to have my heart plummet when I realized it was Saturday, and there was no need for Mark and me to talk. Thus, I’m down in the kitchen, hoping maybe I can persuade my mother to do something together.

“Morning, baby,” she says in that hushed voice of hers. At times, I still get the feeling she tries not to speak too loudly out of the fear that my father will somehow pop up and remind her to lower her voice.

Seeing the coffee pot empty, I walk over and start to get the coffee ready for us. “I thought we could have coffee out on the back patio this morning and then take a walk around the neighborhood?” I suggest.

My mother peels her gaze away from staring out the window, and I cringe at the level of lost sadness I see in her eyes.

“A walk?”

Nodding, I move to the overhead cupboard, pulling down two coffee mugs and placing them onto the counter. “Yeah, I think it’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a little while. Oh, how about after our walk we get dressed and get our nails done? A spa day for us girls?”

My mother was always the one to keep up her appearance. She drilled into me, as a child, the importance of a woman looking her best at all times.

“How we look is our best feature, Jackie,” she would always say. “Your father never would’ve married me if I didn’t care about how I looked.”

As a young teen, I’d mentally shrug off her advice since, even then, I didn’t see what she and my father had as a prize or something I’d ever want. But I never argued with her.

“Don’t you have to go to work today?” she questions, seeming as confused as ever.

“It’s Saturday, Mama.” Reaching across the white tiles of the kitchen island, I take her hand in mine. “Mama, your hand is freezing.”

I shudder at the coldness of her hand before beginning to rub both of her hands in my own. “Coffee will warm you up.”

“Don’t worry about me,”