And last, I didn’t see his big hands ball into tight fists and his strong jaw go hard before he turned to the door.
* * * * *
Early the next morning, I sat on my side porch, jeans on, pink thermal with its tiny blue and green flowers on under a western style jean shirt with pearl snap buttons, fluffy wool scarf wrapped around my neck, my feet encased in very thick wool socks up on the top railing. I had a dusky blue knit cap pulled down over my hair and my fingerless, fuzzy woolen gloves were wrapped around a huge cup of steaming coffee.
I stared at the landscape, the trees surrounding my cabin, evergreens tufted in snow, leafless aspens gilded with it. To the left, the river was running over its red rock, beginning to twinkle in the rising sun. To the right through the trees, my winding lane leading to the cabins one way, the street the other.
We’d had a dump of snow. I needed to get the little tractor with the blade out and clear the lane and parking lot in case any of my patrons wanted to take a Christmas day jaunt.
But I sat there, deciding to do it later. No one in their right mind left their house early on Christmas morning.
On that thought, I heard the door open behind me and I twisted in my chair, keeping my feet where they were, and watched John Priest walk out.
He, too, was wearing thick woolen socks but his were a marled gray and black, whereas mine were a light mint green.
He was also wearing faded jeans, a white thermal under a padded, navy blue flannel shirt, the navy blue somehow making his tawny eyes turn an appealing amber.
He had thick stubble.
It was hot.
And last, his hair was a mess like he hadn’t even run his hand through it to tame it after rolling out of bed.
That was hotter.
He was holding a heavy, toffee-colored earthenware mug of my coffee in his meaty fist.
I felt the pull of his magnificence, instantly denied that pull, and smiled at him.
He just looked at me then he looked to the chair beside me, a chair no one had sat in except Dick Grant, and Grant hadn’t sat in it often. Then he made his way there.
I looked away as he sat down but I couldn’t miss his feet going up on the top railing, two feet from mine.
My legs were bent. His long legs were straight and he crossed them at the ankles.
Sitting beside him in silence, something settled in me. Something just as good and right as I knew it was bad and wrong.
I tried to ignore it.
It was hard to ignore.
I managed it, brought the cup of coffee to my lips, and said softly into it, “Merry Christmas, Priest.”
He surprised me by replying in a gentle rumble, “Merry Christmas, Cassidy.”
He said my name.
He knew it and he said it.
I smiled into my coffee before I took a sip.
* * * * *
I hit the off button on the remote and turned to Priest.
“Well?” I asked.
“It sucked,” he answered.