On a long loop of ribbon, a clump of mistletoe dangled from the ceiling. He reacted instantly
But while Mike had the honed reflexes of a fighter pilot, Merry had a head start. The cold air made his lungs seize, but he got the words out. âDonât you wantâ¦me toâ¦kiss you?â
She frowned. âNot with my parents pushing us together so obviously. Not with you leaving in only a week. Not when weâre both pressured by the circumstances.â
He dropped the timbre of his voice to a conspiratorial level that was only partly joking. âWhat are these circumstances you speak of?â
She blinked. âYou donât know?â
âNick told me lots of things, including that you and the guy you lived with split up recently. Is that what you mean? Are you broken-hearted?â
âIâm not broken-hearted,â she whispered. âBut I amâ¦â
âEminently kissable,â he said, and gathered her into his arms so she couldnât run away again. He took her mouth with certainty. After a moment he deepened the kiss and dropped his hands to her waist.
Ding. A bell went off in his head. Plink. The penny dropped. Click. Pieces came together.
âMeredith.â She looked straight at him, nodding a little. âYouâre pregnant.â
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A lifelong Michigander, Carrie Alexander has been writing for more than a decade, garnering two RITA® Award nominations and a Romantic Times BOOKreviews career achievement award along the way. At Christmas she indulges her artistic side by spending too many hours wrapping gifts, creating birch-bark wreaths and decorating sugar cookies.
Dear Reader,
A town called Christmas actually exists. Itâs located near Lake Superior, on highway M-28 in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Giant Mr and Mrs Claus signs welcome visitors to the Christmas mall, while the townâs post office hand-cancels Christmas cards sent from around the country. Though my version of Christmas, Michigan, has been fictionalised to include the tree farm of the heroineâs family, the Parade of Lights and a tavern named the Christmas Cheer, the essence of the rugged, can-do spirit remains true to life.
I hope you find a little quiet time during your own busy holiday season to enjoy Merry and Mikeâs story.
Happy holidays!
Carrie
PS Visit my website at www.CarrieAlexander.com for Christmas cookie recipes and news bout future projects.
To my father:
Christmas-tree seller, ski jumper and storyteller extraordinaire
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Michael Kavanaugh relished the crucial seconds of the strike fighterâs final approach to the aircraft carrier. For that brief time, he had nothing else occupying his mind. His sorry excuse for a personal life vanished. All that mattered were his years of flight experienceâfrom the first day of ground school through combat sorties to making just one more successful trip.
He entered the traffic pattern at two hundred and fifty knots, flying up the wake of the ship with his tailhook down, and completed a brisk break turn and deceleration. Landing gear and flaps extended.
A red indicator light blinked on his instrument panel. Too fast. He pitched nose up, passing the shipâs port side now. A turn to final approach, hand on throttle, looking for the âmeatball,â the colored-light array that was his optical landing aid. The orange meatball was centered, indicating an optimum glide slope. One clipped radio announcement and response from the landing signal officer and he was good to go.
Final approach. Every thought, every sensation, narrowed to an arrow point of concentration. The small, rapid corrections he made to maintain the ideal angle were automatic.
The plane hit the deck with a solid thump. Mike jammed full throttle in anticipation of a bolterâwhere the tailhook bounced past the shipâs arrestor wires despite a perfect approachâbut the hook caught and he was safely aboard.
He exhaled. That was it. The last âEâ ticket ride of the day.
Still high on the rush, he looked to a yellow-shirted crew member for directions to taxi the Rhino to its parking spot.
Afterward, still in his green flight suit, Mike reported to his home away from home, the Blue Knight squadronâs ready room. The room was outfitted with rows of assigned chairs, a television and other amenities, along with the banners and crest of the squadron. Grades for the dayâs approaches would be posted, but that wasnât his present focus.
He exchanged greetings with a couple of pilots before settling into his padded chair, wishing that just once there might be some privacy. It was a futile wish, but thereâd been nothing else for him, lately.
With grim resolution, he reached into an inside pocket, feeling the strain where the shoulder harness had bruised his collarbone. The letter he withdrew was already familiar in his hand, even though heâd received it only a few days ago, four months in to the cruise. He had every word memorized, but then that had been an easy task. The letter was short and concise, as if Denise hadnât wanted to waste any more time or words on the breakup of their lengthy engagement.