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CHAPTER EIGHT
To My Long-Lost Bride,
I can’t even begin to explain why I’m writing to you again this year. Habit? Or am I just a glutton for punishment? Idon’t love you. Idon’t. Idon’t love anyone, anymore. What feelings I had died longago.
But still I look at other women and think... They’re notyou.
Shayne, what happened to our Forever Love? Why can’t I get you out of mymind?
“Whatpart of my final word—no Christmas—didn’t you understand?” Chaz roared.
Shayne sat perched high on a ladder placed dab-smack in the middle of the hallway, clutching streams of ivy to her chest. She blinked down at him with the most innocent expression he’d ever seen. Too bad he didn’t believe any part of it. Not the thick, fluttering lashes that surrounded killer fudge-brown eyes. Not the lush, moist lips parted with such innocent seduction. And certainly not the spine-tingling, husky way she said, “Whatever do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean.” He swept his arm through the air to indicate the latest changes to his surroundings. Dramatic changes that seemed to come faster with each day that passed. “These Christmas decorations. The ones I said you weren’t to bring into my, Imean, our house.”
“Our house?”
His altered phrasing elicited a delicious smile, one that melted him for a whole two seconds before he remembered why he was so flat-out furious with her. “That smile isn’t going to cut it, sweet stuff. Now, Iwant all these decorations out of here. Pronto.”
“Don’t be silly, Chaz. These aren’t for Christmas,” those lush lips lied with brazen disregard.
“You have twinkly lights up! If that’s not—”
“Oh, that.” She dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “Those aren’t Christmas lights.”
His jaw worked. “They’re not?”
“Goodness, no. Would you like to know how I can tell?”
“Please. Tell me.” Reining in his anger, he folded his arms across his chest and braced his shoulder against the doorway leading to the dining room. “This I’ve gotta hear.”
With blatant disregard to her personal safety, she wriggled her pert little bottom more firmly onto the top step of the folding ladder, not showing the least concern when the aluminum legs wobbled alarmingly beneath her. “See, Christmas lights are red, green or white. These are blushing tea rose pink.”
“Blushing tea rose pink.”
“Exactly. And those bows? The ones holding up the ivy?” To his relief, she stopped squirming around, reducing the ladder’s wobble to a mild shimmy. “Well, they’re not Christmas bows, either.”
He ground his teeth, amazed they weren’t down to useless stumps by now. “No, of course they aren’t. Let me guess. That’s because they’re purple.”
“Don't be ridiculous. They're puce. And I haven't used any pinecones or greenery or mistletoe or anything remotely Christmas-like.”
He pointed to the garland of ivy twisting a graceful path around his door frames. “So, what do you call that stuff?”
“Cosmetic work. You said I was supposed to take care of that, right? Heck, the ivy isn’t even green.”
“Then what is it? Salamander red?”
She chuckled. “Now you’re teasing. You know perfectly well it’s blue. Bluegrass pine, to be exact.”
“Are you trying to tell me the ‘pine’ and ‘grass’ part aren’t green?”
“Not even a little.” She swiped her arm in an expansive gesture, nearly tipping herself over backward. “The blue overrides any other color.”
“Uh-huh.” He straightened away from the door frame and approached her ladder. “First, when I said no Christmas decorations, that’s what I meant. And that includes all this stuff. Second, when I asked you to oversee the cosmetic work, Imeant for you to slap a coat of paint on the walls, not drape ivy all over the place. And third, if you don’t fill in the holes in the floor soon, someone’s libel to fall in and never be found again.”
The ladder trembled rather violently. “There’s a subfloor,” she explained. “It’s not likely anyone will fall through that.”
“No, they’ll just trip and break something.”
