Page 44 of Mistletoe and Malice
“My mistake.” His sock-clad feet made no noise as he walked to the fridge and pulled open the door.
She poured hot milk over the cocoa mix and stirred it together. Stealing a glance in his direction as he stared into the refrigerator, she was grateful she’d donned a set of warm, modest pajama bottoms with a loose-fitting long-sleeved sweatshirt, since she hadn’t thought to grab a robe. He, too, wore a pair of plaid pajama pants, and his gray T-shirt outlined an impressive six-pack and hugged his muscular arms. He’d apparently been in bed at some point. His hair had that mussed look of someone tumbling around trying to get comfortable.
She rinsed the spoon in the sink and cleared her throat. “What’s your excuse forskulkingaround in the wee hours?”
He pulled a platter from the refrigerator and shut the door. “I got a hankering for some of Hilda’s roast beef. Thought I’d make myself a sandwich.”
“Sounds good.”
“You want one?”
She shook her head. “Not hungry. You enjoy, though. Make yourself at home.”
“Your mom’s been telling me the same all week, which is why I’m down here raiding the kitchen like I own the place. Boy, that cook of yours makes one great roast.”
“Maybe you and she can compare notes.”
“I’m sure I could learn a thing or two.” He pulled out two thick slices of homemade bread and set them on a plate on the kitchen island, generously slathering them with mayonnaise before turning his attention to her. “You okay?”
“Sure.”
His stare didn’t waver.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Not that she’d tried, but it would’ve been a losing battle. “Figured I’d get some work done.”
“You worked all evening. Even missed dinner.”
“Yeah, lost track of the time.” She blew across the top of her steaming cup. “The holidays are busy times for charity work, but it’s the most lucrative time of the year, so it’s worth the extra effort. Not to mention Shane’s case. I hadn’t expected to take another client until after the holidays, but I couldn’t put him off. The man needs some hope.”
He nodded but kept piling roast beef onto the bread. She got the impression that morning at breakfast he felt she was being disloyal to her friend. Hopefully, he’d eventually see nothing could be further from the truth, since that’s exactly what she sought—the truth about who killed Caitlyn.
“What about you?” she asked. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I did for a couple of hours. A lot on my mind, I guess.”
“Work stuff?”
He sat at the table. “Some.”
“Would you like something to drink? Milk? Water?”
“Milk sounds good.”
She took the milk back out of the fridge and poured him a glass, then carried it with her hot chocolate to the table.
“Thanks.”
“Care for some company?”
“Have a seat.”
She took the chair across from him. “So, what else?”
He cut his sandwich in two. “What else what?”
“You saidsome. What else is keeping you awake?”
He plucked a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table, put one half of his sandwich on it, and slid it over to her. “Eat that.”
