Free Marry-Me Christmas by Shirley Jump Page B

been able to find. Flynn dug and discovered, doing whatever it took to get the real story. That chase was what had thrilled him from his first days as a cub reporter at a newspaper, and it was what had made him a legend at the magazine.
    Getting the story was a game—a game he played damn well.
    Sam crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him. “Ever since you arrived here, I’ve been trying to figure you out. Aunt Ginny would tell me that if I had any common sense at all, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I’ve never been very good at that.”
    He had turned toward her, and when they’d both been reading the story on his computer, the distance between them had closed. Now Flynn found himself watching that mouth. A sassy mouth, indeed. “And I suppose you’re about to tell me exactly what you think of me? Point out all my faults?”
    “You do have a few.” She inhaled, and the V of her sweater peeked open just enough to peak his desire.
    She had more than a sassy mouth, that was for sure. He reached out and tipped her chin upward. “What if I do the same for you?”
    She swallowed, but held his gaze. Desire burned in his veins, pounding an insistent call in his brain. Everything within him wanted to kiss her, take her in his arms, end this torturous curiosity about what she’d feel like. Taste like.
    And yet, at the same time, the reporter side of him tried to shush that desire, told him to take advantage of the moment, to use it to exploit the vulnerable moment.
    “I’m not the one going around with a chip the size of Ohio on my shoulder,” she said.
    “Maybe I have a good reason for that chip.”
    “At Christmas? No one has a good reason to be grumpy at Christmas.”
    He released her jaw. “Some people do.”
    The clock above them ticked, one second, two. Three. Then Sam’s voice, as quiet as snow falling. “Why?”
    The clock got in another four ticks before Flynn answered. “Let’s just say I never stayed in one place long enough for Santa to find me.”
    “Why?”
    A one-word question. One that, in normal conversation, might have prompted a heartfelt discussion. Some big sharing moment over a couple cups of coffee and a slice of streusel. But Flynn wasn’t a coffee-and-streusel kind of guy. He hadn’t done show-and-tell in first grade, and he wasn’t going to do it now.
    The oven timer buzzed, announcing another batch of cookies was done. And so was this conversation. Somehow it had gotten turned around, and Flynn was off his game, off his center of gravity. He needed to retreat and regroup.
    “The story is about you, not me,” Flynn said. “When you get a job as a reporter, then you get to ask the questions.”
    Without bothering to pack it in the bag, he picked up his laptop, yanked the cord out of the outlet and headed out of the warm and cozy shop. And into a biting cold, the kind he knew as well as his own name.
    This was the world where Flynn found comfort, not the one he’d just left.
     
    Today her grandmother thought she was the maid.
    Sam told herself not to be disappointed. Every time she drove over to Heritage Nursing Home, she steeled herself for that light of confusion in Joy Barnett’s eyes, that “Do I know you?” greeting instead of the hugs and love Sam craved like oxygen.
    And every time disappointment hit her like a snowplow.
    “Have you cleaned the bathroom?” Joy asked. “I’m afraid I made a mess of the sink when I washed my face. I’m sorry.”
    Sam worked up a smile. “Yes, I cleaned it.”
    It took all Sam had not to release the sigh in her throat. How she wanted things to change, to turn back the clock. There used to be days when her grandmother had recognized her, before the Alzheimer’s had robbed her grandmother of the very joy that she had been named for. The smiles of recognition, the friendships, the family members, and most of all the memories. It was as if she’d become a disconnected boat, floating alone in a vast ocean with no recognizable