Page 7 of A Perfect Christmas Romance (Kringle, Texas #8)

Liv started shivering as soon as they left the overheated restaurant, and now, within sight of her house, she clenched her jaw so Nick wouldn’t hear her teeth chatter.

Now that the pleasant glow from the meal dissipated, she felt edgy. She knew better than to get involved with Nick in any way whatsoever. She was older and wiser, but her heart wasn’t armor-plated.

Every time Nick smiled, her resistance slipped. It was infuriating, really, how one quirk of his lips could make her forget all the reasons why this was A Very Bad Idea.

The neighborhood was oddly busy for a weekday evening, and she realized that the community theatre on the town square, three blocks over, had just let out from the evening performance of A Christmas Carol . She’d gone to see it with Dana the previous week, and she could vouch for the rave reviews.

It felt odd being with Nick as if she’d found herself in a time warp. The streetlights created a soft glow against the dusting of snow covering the ground, and if she allowed herself, she could so easily tumble back into their past relationship.

“So,” he said. “Matilda Merris. I know your company does her publicity. When can you introduce me to her?”

All business. Okay. Fine. That’s how it should be. Why did she feel so disappointed that he was laser-focused on his goal? That was Nick. Nothing had changed.

“Out of curiosity, why do you want to contact her?”

“Marty Merris was her father.”

“And? No one is interested in a baseball scandal that happened in the 1970s. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like your kind of story.” Unless his kind of story had become “Digging Up Ancient History 101.”

Liv knew about Marty Merris because her father was an avid baseball fan with an encyclopedic knowledge of every pitch ever thrown.

Marty had been a Texas Rangers pitcher with a golden arm until he got caught taking money to throw a championship game.

William Lawrence II owned stock in the team and tried to salvage the star pitcher’s reputation.

Nick launched into his explanation about wanting to do a feature on Marty and clear the baseball player’s name.

He rattled off details about other journalists striking out, his own failed attempts, and his producer’s memorabilia collection like he was auditioning for the role of “Persistent Reporter” in a film noir.

“So, you want to whitewash Marty Merris,” Liv said, cutting to the chase.

“I only want to learn his side of the story,” Nick said. “He refused to talk about it for the rest of his life. His daughter is in her seventies now, and she’s the only one who can help clear his name.”

“If it can be cleared.”

Nick continued his pitch, mentioning his producer’s belief in Marty’s greatness and the potential tax deduction.

“I don’t see how I can help you,” Liv said.

“Just talk to her and see if she’ll grant me an interview.”

Liv blew out her breath. He was asking a lot for old time’s sake, like “move a mountain” levels of a lot.

He put his hand on her wrist, in a gesture so familiar it startled her. Nick was a tactile guy, and his fingertips spoke a language all their own. A language that Liv’s body apparently hadn’t forgotten, judging by the goosebumps racing up her arm.

She pulled away, afraid of the casual intimacy that came so easily to him. She couldn’t let herself be attracted again, so she backed up a step and kept her eyes focused on a woman trudging up the sidewalk alone in the snowy darkness. (Definitely not a metaphor for her life. Nope. Not at all.)

“I’ll have to think about it. I can’t make any promises,” she said,

“I understand, but remember, I’m not muckraking. If Merris deserves to be in the sports museum, he should be there.”

“This is me,” she said, stopping in front of her bungalow, complete with a gabled roof, gingerbread trim, and a white picket fence.

“Cute house,” Nick murmured. “I’m not surprised.”

“It’s just a rental,” she said, downplaying it. “I’m saving up to buy my own place one day.”

“It suits you,” he said, eyeing the bungalow. “Traditional but with a hint of whimsy.”

“Let me guess, you live in a downtown industrial loft.”

His eyes widened, and his grin deepened. “You know me too well.”

“That’s you. Thoroughly modern without a trace of sentiment.” She shivered, and not just from the cold.

“You’re cold. You need to get inside.” He paused. “May I walk you to your door?”

She put her gloved hand on the gate. “It’s twenty steps to the porch. I can find my way.”

“Independent as always.”

“I thought you liked that about me.”

He bobbed his head. “I do, I do.”

“Night.” She wriggled her fingers, a gesture that fell somewhere between “royal wave” and “shooing away a persistent fly.”

“Thanks for listening. Call or text me anytime.”

Then he walked away, the hood of his shearling coat hanging between his shoulder blades and dark jeans hugging his muscular calves as he disappeared around the corner.

She let out a heavy sigh and trudged to her front door, wondering if it was too late to move to a remote island where handsome sports reporters and complicated feelings couldn’t find her.

What was she doing? She didn’t owe Nick anything, so why did being near him still feel like trying to swim against the current?

Her cold fingers fumbled with the keys. She should have kept her distance. Stay polite but distant, that had been the plan, but here she was, letting him in again.

She jammed the key into the home with more force than necessary.

Great job, Liv. Better call your insurance company and take out a heartbreak policy.

Because, she realized, she still loved him, even though it was a very stupid thing.

* * *

The following day, Liv trudged through her front door, the weight of the workday clinging to her shoulders.

No sooner had she closed the door than her phone erupted in a chirpy rendition of “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves.”

Liv answered. “Hey.”

“Hi, it’s me,” Amy said.

“I just got home. Can I call you back?”

“Sean and I are heading out to a concert. Quick question—can we talk soon? I need your sage wisdom on some wedding stuff and Mom goes full space cadet whenever I bring it up.”

“Sure, sure,” Liv replied, her brain already drifting to thoughts of takeout and sweatpants.

“I’ll swing by Saturday morning. That work?”

“All right.”

“Catch you then!”

Liv bee-lined for her home office—her thinking spot, her fortress of solitude. She plopped into her swivel chair, considering how many rotations it would take to achieve liftoff.

A text from Mom pinged, gushing about some fancy salon makeover and casually dropping the bombshell that she was “staying at the house for now” while Dad played out some sad motel-dwelling trope.

Liv fired off sympathetic responses to both parents, complete with a meme for Dad. Nothing says “I love you” quite like a grumpy cat, right?

Her phone chimed again, and Liv startled. Why was she so jumpy? “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Nick. Is it okay if I drop in on you?”

Liv’s heart swooned. “Now?”

“Well, if that’s okay.”

“Where are you?” she asked, knowing she should just say no. She was tired. Definitely too tired for unexpected visits from handsome, intriguing men. Right?

“In Dallas. I can be in Kringle in ninety minutes.”

“I didn’t have a chance to contact Matilda Merris, so you’d be coming here for nothing.” There. That was a perfectly reasonable deterrent.

“There’s some things I want to run past you.”

“So talk.” Liv mentally high-fived herself for her cool detachment.

“I’d rather do this in person if you don’t mind.”

Did she mind? The thought of seeing Nick again sent an arrow through her heart.

“If driving all that way isn’t a bother, come on,” she heard herself say, betrayed by her mouth.

“I have a few ideas about what you can say to Matilda.” He paused. “Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet. I just got home.”

“I’ll bring something if that’s okay.”

Why not let him feed her? She was doing him a favor, after all. It was only fair. “That sounds great.”

As soon as the call ended, Liv bolted to the bathroom, fumbling with her makeup bag. She stared at her reflection, mascara wand poised mid-air.

“Seriously, Olivia, are you going to get on that merry-go-round again?”

No, no. She just wanted to look nice. Professional. Put-together.

The big question hanging in the air, taunting her like a pinata full of emotional baggage, was why?

* * *

An hour and a half later, Liv’s doorbell chimed.

She smoothed her hair and tucked it behind her ears, then scolded herself for the nervous gesture. It definitely, absolutely, positively had nothing to do with Nick.

Opening the door, the sight of Nick hit her like a nostalgia freight train. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away (okay, just college), she’d lived for these moments.

Now? Her feelings were as tangled as last year’s Christmas lights.

There he stood, all ruddy-cheeked from the cold, coat unzipped like some sort of winter warrior, clutching a big white paper sack that smelled divine.

He breezed past her, hanging up his jacket on her wall peg with the casual grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your favorite.” A smile played on his lips.

“Thai?” Of course, he remembered.

“Yep.”

“Where do you want me to set up dinner, living room coffee table or kitchen?”

The man moved through life like he was surfing a perpetual wave of ease, and Liv felt a pang of jealousy sharper than a paper cut.

“Kitchen.” She led the way.

He plunked the bag down on her countertop and, with the audacity of the perpetually charming, started rummaging through her cupboards. He took out a box of cereal, and a wide grin spread across his face.

“I see you’ve stayed hooked on Choco-Crunchies.”

“What are you doing?” She snatched the box away, shoving it back onto the shelf with more force than necessary. Memories of late-night study sessions—and, ahem, other activities—threatened to short-circuit her brain.

“Looking for plates.”