Page 15 of Italian’s Christmas Acquisition

“Oh,” she said. “Why that is very kind of you. Suspiciously so.”

“I hate to be suspicious.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that you do.”

“I promise, I do not wish to murder you.”

“Well,veryreassuring.” But then she felt not so great, so as amazing as the sight below was, she ended up making her way back to her bed.

She must have dozed again, because when she opened her eyes, the door to the bedroom was open, and it had grown darker outside. “Here,” said a very masculine voice.

She looked over. He was standing there holding a tray with a steaming bowl and a steaming mug.

“What is it?”

“I opened a can of soup. And I made tea.”

“Oh. Well, that’s very nice of you.”

Still suspicious.

“Yes. It was.” He sounded pleased with himself, if a bit surprised.

She looked around. “I don’t want to be ungrateful, but I find that I don’t really relish the idea of trying to eat soup in bed.”

“I have built a fire,” he said.

“Excellent,” she said. “Maybe I’ll eat down in the library. It’s only a cold.”

She sneezed.

“Yes. Let us... I will carry the food. If you sneeze whilst carrying the tray it is likely to cause a small disaster.”

“I am nothing if not a small disaster.” She got out of bed, clutching a tissue in her hand, and followed him out of the room.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“A small disaster.”

He was asking about her now? What strange dimension had she fallen into. He was cutting wood and caring for her and acting like...he cared about getting to know her, which couldn’t be true.

She looked at his face—dear God he was handsome—and she tried to get a handle on what he was thinking. What he felt about anything.

He was a mystery, and she didn’t think it was only because she had limited experience with men. He was...something else.

No leftovers. No experience making soup.

So cold in so many ways and yet...he’d taken care of her, so he wasn’t entirely cold.

“It feels like it. Because how else have I found myself in this position? Snowed in on a mountaintop with a nonworking snowplow and a very large stranger who clearly wishes to be rid of me.”

“Did Isaythat I wish to be rid of you?”

“You’re trying to buy me out.” She felt it prudent to point out—to him and to herself—that even though he’d been kind to her while she was sick he was still trying to fundamentally upend her way of life.

“That has nothing to do with my desires for you either way.”

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