Jingle Spells by Vicki Lewis Thompson Page B

fine in here,” the woman called out to him.
    After a long pause, he returned with, “Lark?”
    Though secretly touched at his concern, Lark heaved a put-upon sigh, marched over to the door and pulled it open a crack. A beautiful, startlingly green eye stared at her.
    â€œEthan, for pity’s sake, I’m in the ladies’ room.” She arched an imperious brow. “How about a little privacy?”
    The green eye narrowed suspiciously and tried to peer around her. “It sounds like you’re having a party in there.”
    Lark purposely shifted, obstructing his view. “So what if we are,” she said. She flicked her fingers at him impatiently. “Shoo.”
    â€œShoo? Really?”
    â€œ
Go
away
.” She shut the door once more, and leaned against it, pressing a palm to her forehead.
    â€œMercy, he sounds pretty.”
    A wan smile curled her lips and she hung her head and laughed softly. “That’s because he is.”
    â€œThen what’s the problem?”
    Another weak laugh. “
The
problem implies that there’s only one.”
    â€œChemistry is chemistry,” she said. “Problems have a way of sorting themselves out when we stop thinking with our heads and start listening to our bodies.”
    That sounded awfully new age and open-minded, Lark thought. It also sounded like excellent advice...if it were in relation to anything other than Ethan Evergreen.
    But him? Er, no. Her mind was constantly at war with her body when it came to him. Inside of her, self-preservation went toe-to-toe in a bare-knuckled brawl with lust—right now, self-preservation was holding its own, but it flagged every time she was around him. That’s why she’d bolted the instant the interview had been over. Ordinarily she would have lingered and they would have exchanged a few more barbs, then gone for a drink where they would have continued to flirt under the guise of a heated debate—one that inevitably would have been punctuated by a little laughter and a lot of longing—and then she’d come to her senses and leave in a huff, and he’d smile because he’d realize she was just running scared. That was the trouble, in a nutshell, Lark thought. He knew too much about her. Instinctively. Sometimes when he looked at her she was utterly convinced he’d just opened up her head and taken a peek inside. It was unnerving. And slightly comforting, which she’d no doubt need to ask her therapist about, she thought with a frown. Why in the hell would she find that comforting? That sort of invasion of her mind? Her very thoughts?
    Possibly because, in an odd sort of way, she thought he
got
her.
    Singular, that. No one had ever gotten her, not even her parents. She’d been
that
child, the fragile one with the delusions of Santa Claus, with the hyper imagination that had animated ordinary Christmas decorations. Even now, almost twenty years later, a doctorate degree under her belt, she still fought the delusions.
    Hell, just that morning she’d caught a glimpse of a wink from a nutcracker in a store window.
    And then there was her snowman, Mr. Cool, who she’d snuck outside and rescued from the garbage bin all those years ago when her parents had purged all the ornaments and decorations from the house. For reasons that escaped her, she’d hung on to him, unable to let him go. A sentimental weakness, she supposed. She’d tried several times to toss him into the trash or put him in a donation box, but she could never make herself do it. He presently hung from an artificial ficus tree, a lone reminder of her past, both the good and the bad.
    â€œLark?” Ethan persisted.
    She groaned and massaged the bridge of her nose.
    Her new friend finished applying a fresh coat of lipstick. “He’s persistent, isn’t he?”
    Yes, dammit. “Like a dog with a bone.”
    She shot her a knowing look. “Then clip a