No Christmas Like the Present by Sierra Donovan Page A

sadder . . . a little colder.
    Great. Now even Johnny Mathis was picking on her.
    Lindsay got through the line, turned to search for a seat, and her food tray nearly collided with a familiar charcoal-black overcoat.
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    Fred steadied the tray as Lindsay staggered off balance.
    One glance told him this wasn’t the same woman he’d left sitting contentedly on her couch last night. Her eyes—that clear, light gray that usually reminded him of snowflakes—were more like storm clouds today, troubled and shadowy. Fred felt his own mood dim slightly, and that was a foreign sensation to him. But he didn’t like seeing her so disquieted.
    Lindsay barely looked up at him. “Not now, Fred,” she said, and started to pull the tray away.
    Not good. Not good at all. She didn’t even seem surprised to see him. Either she was getting very blasé about this whole thing, or something was truly distressing her. He tried not to dwell on how much her mood unsettled him, or what his own reaction might mean.
    He held firmly to the tray. “Not so fast. What’s wrong?”
    She tugged at the tray again. “Fred, seriously. I’m not in the mood.”
    â€œI can see that. What happened?”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.”
    This could be a splendid opportunity, as good a glance into Lindsay’s inner demons as he was ever likely to get, but that wasn’t what kept his grip so tenaciously on her tray. He didn’t like that cloudy look in her eyes, as if she really weren’t seeing him at all. That troubled crease between her eyebrows. Laugh lines were fine, but that crease didn’t belong there. He yearned to rub it away, as if he could erase it with his thumb.
    He held on to her gaze as firmly as he could. “Let’s sit down.”
    Her eyes regained a little of their focus, and she relinquished the tray. Good. He’d reached her, at least a little.
    Finding a seat in this mass of humanity could be a trick. The food court resembled a parking lot of tables, with little more space between them than so many parked cars. But that was a problem much more easily solved than Lindsay’s troubled mood.
    A few feet away, Fred glimpsed two young women lingering needlessly over two nearly-empty drink cups, and kept his eyes there; a moment later they both stood, still chatting, never consciously aware of his gaze. Fred held one of the newly vacated chairs out for Lindsay, then took his seat across from her.
    She preoccupied herself arranging the items on the brown plastic tray in front of her. Then her eyes flicked up. “How’d you find me here?”
    Unimportant details again. “Maybe because you needed me. I’m here for you, remember?”
    Light brown eyelashes lowered. A sure sign she had something to say, and didn’t want to say it.
    He fought off the temptation to reach for her hand. “So, what’s this thing you don’t want to talk about?”
    She bit into one of the strange-looking breaded chunks from her tray a little more fiercely than seemed necessary. “I just found out Jeanne’s getting married.”
    â€œAnd?”
    She stared at the remaining bit of breaded food in her hand, as if she too wondered what it was. “I think maybe she’s making a mistake.”
    â€œHow so?”
    Lindsay shrugged. “I just don’t think he’s right for her, that’s all.”
    â€œHow would you know that?”
    She met his eyes for the first time since they’d sat down. “Fred, this is the guy she was afraid was going to break up with her just to save money on a Christmas present. He wasn’t even with her at the company party. Probably home watching a football game.” The rest of the morsel met the same violent fate as its predecessor.
    â€œI don’t understand. You’re upset because your friend is throwing her life away on a monster who watches sports programs?