Page 31 of A Cozy Christmas Blizzard
Zelda added, “And I’d really like it if you’d get me that autograph.”
“I will, I will,” K.O. promised. She figured she’d get him to sign Zelda’s copy of his book on Friday evening.
LaVonne drained the last of her coffee and set the mug in the sink. “I’d better get back. I’m going to try to coax the boys out from under the bed,” she said with a resigned look as she walked to the door.
“Everything’ll work out,” K.O. assured her again—with a confidence she didn’t actually feel.
LaVonne responded with a quick wave and left, slamming the door behind her.
Now K.O. was free to have a leisurely shower, carefully choose her outfit... and daydream about Wynn.
Nine
Wynn had already secured a window table when K.O. arrived at the French Café. As usual, the shop was crowded, with a long line of customers waiting to place their orders.
In honor of the season, she’d worn a dark-blue sweater sprinkled with silvery stars and matching star earrings. She hung her red coat on the back of her chair.
Wynn had thoughtfully ordered for her, and there was a latte waiting on the table, along with a bran muffin, her favorite. K.O. didn’t remember mentioning how much she enjoyed the café’s muffins, baked by Alix Townsend, who sometimes worked at the counter. The muffins were a treat she only allowed herself once a week.
“Good morning,” she said, sounding a little more breathless than she would’ve liked. In the space of a day, she’d gone from distrust to complete infatuation. Just twenty-four hours ago, she’d been inventing ways to get out of seeing Wynnagain, and now... now she could barely stand to be separated from him.
She broke off a piece of muffin, after a sip of her latte in its oversize cup. “How did you know I love their bran muffins?” she asked. The bakery made them chock-full of raisins and nuts, so they were deliciously unlike blander varieties. Not only that, K.O. always felt she’d eaten something healthy when she had a bran muffin.
“I asked the girl behind the counter if she happened to know what you usually ordered, and she recommended that.”
Once again proving how thoughtful he was.
“You had one the day you were here talking to some guy,” he said flippantly.
“That was Bill Mulcahy,” she explained. “I met with him because I wrote his Christmas letter.”
Wynn frowned. “He’s one of your clients?”
“I told you how I write people’s Christmas letters, remember?” It’d been part of their conversation the night before. “I’ll write yours if you want,” she said, and then thinking better of it, began to sputter a retraction.
She needn’t have worried that he’d take her up on the offer because he was already declining. He shook his head. “Thanks, anyway.” He grimaced. “I don’t want to offend you, but I find that those Christmas letters are typically a pack of lies!”
“Okay,” she said mildly. She decided not to argue. K.O. sipped her coffee again and ate another piece of muffin, deciding not to worry about calories, either. “Don’t you just love Christmas?” she couldn’t help saying. The sights and sounds of the season were all around them. The café itself looked elegant; garlands draped the windows and pots of white andred poinsettias were placed on the counter. Christmas carols played, just loudly enough to be heard. A bell-ringer collecting for charity had set up shop outside the café and a woman sat at a nearby table knitting a Christmas stocking. K.O. had noticed a similar one displayed in A Good Yarn, the shop across the street, the day she’d followed Wynn. Christmas on Blossom Street, with its gaily decorated streetlights and cheerful banners, was as Christmassy as Christmas could be.
“Yes, but I had more enthusiasm for the holidays before today,” Wynn said.
“What’s wrong?”
He stared down at his dark coffee. “My father left a message on my answering machine last night.” He hesitated as he glanced up at her. “Apparently he’s decided—at the last minute—to join me for Christmas.”
“I see,” she said, although she really didn’t. Wynn had only talked about his parents that first evening, at Chez Jerome. She remembered that his parents had been hippies, and that his mother had died and his father owned a company that manufactured surfboard wax. But while she’d rattled on endlessly about her own family, he’d said comparatively little about his.
“He didn’t bother to ask if I had other plans, you’ll notice,” Wynn commented dryly.
“Do you?”
“No, but that’s beside the point.”
“It must be rather disconcerting,” she said. Parents sometimes did things like that, though. Her own mother often made assumptions about holidays, but it had never troubled K.O. She was going to miss her parents this year and would’ve been delighted if they’d suddenly decided to show up.
“Now I have to go to the airport on Sunday and pick himup.” Wynn gazed out the window at the lightly falling snow. “As you might’ve guessed, my father and I have a rather... difficult relationship.”
“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure what to say.
