Page 10 of Baby It's Cold Outside

She clearly saw it, too, because she said, “No way can you drive in that. You’d better stay overnight.”

“I can’t impose on you like that.”

“You’re not imposing. You’re stuck. And that’s my fault for suggesting you wait it out.” She shrugged. “Though we hardly ever get snow like this in London, and when we do the city is always out clearing the roads pretty quickly.”

“We don’t often get it like this in Philly,” he admitted. “If we don’t get a thaw, you’re not going to get to see your godmother tomorrow.”

“And you’re going to end up having Christmas dinner here.” She bit her lip. “Though I’m afraid I don’t have a turkey in the fridge. I wasn’t expecting to cook tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to cook for me, Ellie.”

“Yes, I do. You’re my guest. Plus it’s my fault you’re in this mess.”

“It was my decision to accept your invitation for coffee,” he pointed out. “I’m just sorry I’m inconveniencing you.”

“You’re not.” She looked wistfully out at the snow. “I’ve not seen snow this deep in years. I always wanted to make a snow angel when I was a kid, but I never managed to get it to work.”

“Let’s do one now.” Mitch shocked himself when the words came out of his mouth—this so wasn’t the kind of thing his workaholic self did—but something about her made him want to do this. To have fun. “Let’s make a snow angel.”

She surveyed him and shook her head. “You can’t make a snow angel in that suit, and I think Aunt Betty gave all of Uncle Donald’s clothes to charity after he died—so I’ve got no clothes to fit you.”

“Who says I can’t make a snow angel in this suit?” he asked.

“Because it’s expensive and

you’ll ruin it.”

“It’s only a little snow—and it’s been years since I made a snow angel.” The same year that he’d learned Santa didn’t exist. Though he wasn’t that scared little boy anymore. He was a man, and he could do anything he chose.

“Are you serious? You’d really make a snow angel with me?”

“Absolutely.”

He was rewarded with another of those smiles that lit up the room. And he almost—almost—gave in to the temptation to pull her into his arms in the hallway and kiss her underneath the mistletoe. But he followed her out to the kitchen; she unlocked the back door, and they went into the garden.

She stood there with her arms outstretched. “On the count of three?”

He nodded, and adopted the same pose. “One, two, three…” He let himself fall backward, then moved his arms up and down and his legs akimbo and back again, making a snow angel. He glanced to one side and she was doing the same, looking as thrilled as the younger children had looked when they’d seen him in his Santa suit.

He stood up. “Done?”

“Done.”

He stretched out a hand to pull her up. Funny how the touch of her skin made his palm tingle.

She looked down at the snow. “That’s fabulous. A real snow angel. I have to take a picture of this.” She disappeared inside briefly and returned with her cell phone. “My brother’s going to be so jealous when I send him this.”

“I’ll take one of you beside your angel, if you like,” he offered.

“Thanks.”

Oh, that smile. It was as dangerous as hell, systematically breaking down every barrier he’d ever put around himself.

But he duly took the picture for her. And another, when she was halfway through making her second snow angel.

“Do you want me to put your phone back in the kitchen?” he asked.

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

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