sure—but he suspected she was about to pull away.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Jessie,” he said, his voice husky. “I won’t hurt you.”
“But I might hurt you,” she said in a voice laden with regret. “I’m cursed. And it’s Christmas. I don’t stand a chance. Neither do you. You’ll be better off when you’re rid of me.”
He squeezed her hand. “Maybe the trick is to replace your Christmas bad luck with good luck. You know that saying ‘When someone hands you a bag of bones, make soup.’”
“Don’t you mean lemons, and lemonade?”
He scowled at her interruption and went on. “Treat our meeting as a miracle instead of a curse . . . oh, hell, I’m not very good with this kind of stuff. I have all these thoughts and feelings inside, but they just don’t come out right.” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I’m not very good with words.”
She squeezed his hand back, and he thought his heart would explode with happiness. “You’re doing just fine,” she assured him.
“I still say we should go to my place. It’s only fifteen minutes from here. You could warm up, and—”
“No, I’ve got to get back. Sister Clara will be frantic.”
“Sister? I thought she was your aunt.”
“I call her aunt, everyone who lives at Clara’s House does,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively. He was holding on to her other hand for dear life.
He frowned. “You live at Clara’s House? An orphanage?”
“No. Of course not. But I used to. Besides, it’s not really an orphanage. It’s sort of a foster home for incorrigible kids.”
Now, that was a revelation. Jessie had been an orphan, and incorrigible. His lips twitched with humor. He could understand the incorrigible part. “You mean juvenile delinquents?”
“They don’t call them JDs anymore. Politically incorrect.” She smiled at him shyly, and Erik could hardly speak over the lump in his throat. Who would have thought that he’d fall in love so quick, so hard?
“What do you do for a living, Jessie?” he asked finally when he got his emotions under control.
She regarded him mischievously, giving him her full attention now. “So you’re finally convinced I’m not a nun?”
“Babe, nuns don’t tongue kiss,” he replied and winked at her.
He could see a blush bloom on her cheeks. Still, she gave him a slick comeback. “Kissed a lot of nuns, have you?”
How lucky could a guy be? A gorgeous redhead. And a sense of humor, too. He was going to light a few thank-you candles the next time he went to church.
He released her hand and wagged a finger at her. “You’re changing the subject. What do you do for a living, besides burglary?” Then he immediately took her hand again. He wondered idly what she’d do if he tried to pull her over onto his lap. Or stopped the car to kiss her again . . . and again . . . and again. And unbuckled her belt, and . . . oh, brother! About 50,000 of his testosterone cells were revving up for the start signal.
“I didn’t rob . . . oh, never mind,” she said huffily. “I don’t suppose you’d buy Avon Lady?”
“Hell, why not? You’ve hit me with Santa, nun, and gun moll so far. There isn’t anything else you could do that would surprise me.” Except maybe jump onto my lap, uninvited. Yeah! I should be so lucky.
“I’m a wedding caterer.”
“Say that again.”
“I bake spectacular wedding cakes . . . the best almond creme, ten-tier cake in the country. And I supply gourmet food for wedding receptions.”
“Here in Philly?”
“No. I’m from Chicago.”
Whoa! Red flag! That posed some logistical problems. Long-distance dating and all that. Well, no problem! He’d skip the dating and get right down to the serious stuff. Hmmm. I wonder how long I can wait before I propose? Oops! First, I ’ ve got to tell her I love her. Then I can ask her to marry me and move to Philly. Betcha I could do that all in one shot. Yep, that ’ s what I ’
“Don’t be afraid of me, Jessie,” he said, his voice husky. “I won’t hurt you.”
“But I might hurt you,” she said in a voice laden with regret. “I’m cursed. And it’s Christmas. I don’t stand a chance. Neither do you. You’ll be better off when you’re rid of me.”
He squeezed her hand. “Maybe the trick is to replace your Christmas bad luck with good luck. You know that saying ‘When someone hands you a bag of bones, make soup.’”
“Don’t you mean lemons, and lemonade?”
He scowled at her interruption and went on. “Treat our meeting as a miracle instead of a curse . . . oh, hell, I’m not very good with this kind of stuff. I have all these thoughts and feelings inside, but they just don’t come out right.” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I’m not very good with words.”
She squeezed his hand back, and he thought his heart would explode with happiness. “You’re doing just fine,” she assured him.
“I still say we should go to my place. It’s only fifteen minutes from here. You could warm up, and—”
“No, I’ve got to get back. Sister Clara will be frantic.”
“Sister? I thought she was your aunt.”
“I call her aunt, everyone who lives at Clara’s House does,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively. He was holding on to her other hand for dear life.
He frowned. “You live at Clara’s House? An orphanage?”
“No. Of course not. But I used to. Besides, it’s not really an orphanage. It’s sort of a foster home for incorrigible kids.”
Now, that was a revelation. Jessie had been an orphan, and incorrigible. His lips twitched with humor. He could understand the incorrigible part. “You mean juvenile delinquents?”
“They don’t call them JDs anymore. Politically incorrect.” She smiled at him shyly, and Erik could hardly speak over the lump in his throat. Who would have thought that he’d fall in love so quick, so hard?
“What do you do for a living, Jessie?” he asked finally when he got his emotions under control.
She regarded him mischievously, giving him her full attention now. “So you’re finally convinced I’m not a nun?”
“Babe, nuns don’t tongue kiss,” he replied and winked at her.
He could see a blush bloom on her cheeks. Still, she gave him a slick comeback. “Kissed a lot of nuns, have you?”
How lucky could a guy be? A gorgeous redhead. And a sense of humor, too. He was going to light a few thank-you candles the next time he went to church.
He released her hand and wagged a finger at her. “You’re changing the subject. What do you do for a living, besides burglary?” Then he immediately took her hand again. He wondered idly what she’d do if he tried to pull her over onto his lap. Or stopped the car to kiss her again . . . and again . . . and again. And unbuckled her belt, and . . . oh, brother! About 50,000 of his testosterone cells were revving up for the start signal.
“I didn’t rob . . . oh, never mind,” she said huffily. “I don’t suppose you’d buy Avon Lady?”
“Hell, why not? You’ve hit me with Santa, nun, and gun moll so far. There isn’t anything else you could do that would surprise me.” Except maybe jump onto my lap, uninvited. Yeah! I should be so lucky.
“I’m a wedding caterer.”
“Say that again.”
“I bake spectacular wedding cakes . . . the best almond creme, ten-tier cake in the country. And I supply gourmet food for wedding receptions.”
“Here in Philly?”
“No. I’m from Chicago.”
Whoa! Red flag! That posed some logistical problems. Long-distance dating and all that. Well, no problem! He’d skip the dating and get right down to the serious stuff. Hmmm. I wonder how long I can wait before I propose? Oops! First, I ’ ve got to tell her I love her. Then I can ask her to marry me and move to Philly. Betcha I could do that all in one shot. Yep, that ’ s what I ’
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