Christmas Sugar (Insta-Spark)

Her slight laugh made me grin.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you, Mr. Maxwell?”

I shook my head. “I need something to hold over you. And stop calling me Mr. Maxwell. It’s Dylan. I like to hear you call me Dylan,” I insisted, my finger drifting over to her mouth, remembering how her lips felt on mine. They were so soft under my callused fingertip. They felt so right under my mouth.

Our gazes locked, the warmth swirling around us again.

“Is there anything special you’d like for dinner?” she squeaked out.

“You,” I murmured before I could stop myself.

She gasped and her cheeks flamed, making me chuckle. She reacted to me so easily.

“I meant . . . I meant for me to make you.”

I sighed. “I figured as much, dammit.”

“Stop cursing,” she admonished me.

“Have dinner with me, and I’ll stop.”

“I doubt that.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’ll have dinner?” I grinned.

“Stop twisting my words! I have to work.”

“Fine.”

“Is there something in particular you would like me to make for your dinner?” she asked again, enunciating each word, making sure I understood her question.

“No. But I’d like some more pie,” I requested, even though I’d sworn I wouldn’t eat any more sugar.

One piece couldn’t hurt.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She indicated the door. “George—Mr. Walsh—is waiting for you.” She paused. “Enjoy your afternoon, Dylan.”

She hurried away, her cheeks still flushed.

I chuckled and straightened my tie, lifting my hand to knock.

A deep voice stopped my movement.

“Come in, Mr. Maxwell.”

George Walsh wasn’t at all what I expected.

Of course, nothing was in Pinegrove.

He sat, tall and proud, in a wheelchair, everything about him screaming strength and dignity despite his useless legs.

His short, silver hair gleamed in the light. His handshake was firm, his blue gaze direct, and his approach honest.

I liked him.