The Meaning in Mistletoe - Rachael Bloome Page 0,24

special family recipe.”

“That sounds great,” he rasped, cringing at how embarrassingly husky his voice sounded. He really needed to get ahold of himself. “Who’s Fern?”

She paused halfway to the kitchen, a strange expression stealing over her, but she quickly dismissed it, saying casually, “She’s the woman who raised me.” Before Jack could press further, she added, “I’ll need a bar of dark chocolate, whole milk, vanilla bean or extract, agave nectar or sugar, ancho powder or cayenne pepper. Oh, and cinnamon. And I don’t suppose you have a molinillo?”

“A what?”

Kat grinned. “It’s a wooden tool used to froth the milk, and it helps the chocolate dissolve. But a hand blender will do in a pinch.”

As Jack assembled the ingredients—grateful he kept his own kitchen nearly as well stocked as the diner—he waited for an opportunity to ask more about Kat’s childhood.

Truthfully, he wanted to learn everything he could about this woman who had undeniably captured his interest.

And maybe a little bit of his heart, too.

Chapter 12

As Kat slowly stirred the hot chocolate on the stove, she chided herself for mentioning Fern. She’d heard the interest in Jack’s voice when he’d asked about her, and Kat wanted to avoid any further discussion of her unconventional upbringing. The last thing she wanted was pity—especially from Jack.

She poured the thick, velvety liquid into two tin mugs, pleased with the sweet, spicy aroma curling from the brims. The first time Fern taught her the family recipe, she’d been twelve years old. Fern had caught her nestled in a corner of the couch on Christmas Eve, the clock creeping closer to midnight. But she wasn’t waiting for Santa Claus to slide down the chimney. Her mother had slipped out of the shelter after dinner, as she often did, and hadn’t returned.

Helena often disappeared for days on end, leaving Kat in Fern’s care without any indication as to when she’d be back. But that year, she’d promised her daughter a real Christmas, and Kat had foolishly believed her.

Fern had stayed up with Kat most of the night, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on cookies while they watched one classic Christmas Claymation film after the next. They never spoke of Helena, who eventually arrived by noon the next day and immediately passed out in their bedroom upstairs.

As an adult, Kat often wondered why Fern kept letting them come back to the shelter. They’d been in and out so many times, she should have realized her mother was a hopeless cause. But ever the optimist, Fern didn’t like giving up on anyone. And in thirty years, she’d only failed to help one woman turn her life around.

It pained Kat deeply that the one woman had been her mother. After all, even Ebenezer Scrooge had found redemption. Why couldn’t Helena Bennet?

After handing Jack a mug of hot chocolate, she settled on the couch beside him. Their canine companion snored softly, harmonizing with the soothing crackle of the fire. “What should we call him?” she asked, watching his furry ears twitch as though he were dreaming.

“How about Fitzwilliam Darcy? But we can call him Fitz for short.”

Kat blinked in surprise. “You’re a Jane Austen fan?”

“Does that shock you?” he chuckled.

“Frankly, yes.”

“How prejudiced of you, Miss Bennet,” he said with a playful grin.

Kat laughed. “Point taken. But you have to admit, it’s unusual. Most men don’t read Jane Austen voluntarily.”

“My sister left behind a copy of Pride and Prejudice after one of her visits, and on a whim, I gave it a try. Scout’s honor, I enjoyed it.”

Kat cocked her head, completely taken by this new information. Could the man be any more endearing?

“So, what do you think of the name?” he prompted.

“I think it suits him perfectly. Does this mean you’ll keep him if we can’t find his owner?” she asked hopefully.

“Maybe.”

Her heart sank at his noncommittal tone, and she wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important to her that Jack kept him. After all, as long as Fitz went to a good home, it shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t as if she’d be around to visit.

With his brow furrowed deep in thought, Jack brought the mug to his lips.

Kat watched him intently, gauging his reaction.

After he took his first sip, his eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”

“What’s wrong?” She leaned forward, her pulse quickening. Did he hate it? Not everyone appreciated the subtle kick of cayenne and cinnamon.

“We have a problem,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor. “This is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted.”

She relaxed against the cushions, and