Free Holiday in Your Heart by Susan Fox

to, knowing that he wasn’t a guy who believed in long-term commitment? “I might be reconsidering that,” he said, letting a little of the old Mo show in his eyes and his slow smile.
    Her face lit, warming until those green eyes danced. “I might be in favor of you reconsidering that.”
    She walked off with the flowers and he followed her to the kitchen. She opened a big, pantry-type cupboard, went in, and emerged with a ceramic vase. Deftly, she arranged the flowers in it. “Thank you for these. Now, what can I get you to drink?”
    â€œI wouldn’t turn down more hot chocolate, if you felt like making it. Seems to suit the night.”
    As she took out the ingredients, he studied the photos on the fridge. She sure was one active, popular woman. Glancing at a picture of a man and woman with a pony-haired girl and a big black poodle, he commented idly, “That singing dog’s still hanging around.”
    â€œCaruso?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Hanging around where?”
    â€œThe garage. Since he seemed determined to stay, I put a wooden box outside in a sheltered spot, with some rags in it to keep him warm.”
    â€œYou’re a soft touch.”
    â€œTell me you’d have done any different.”
    â€œNope. But then I don’t pretend to be macho.”
    Damn, but the woman made him smile. “Just hope the stupid dog doesn’t get me fired. Can’t imagine Hank’s going to be too happy about having some stray hanging around the shop.”
    â€œTell him Caruso will be good for business. He can sing to the customers.”
    She poured hot chocolate into two big mugs and held up a bag of fluffy marshmallows. “Want one?”
    â€œPlease.”
    She popped a marshmallow onto the top of each drink and picked up the vase. “Come on into the sitting room. I have a fire going.”
    Carrying both mugs, he followed her to a room at the front of the house, with a sofa, love seat, recliner chair, and a bunch of bookcases full of books and knickknacks. The base colors were neutral—pale gold walls and oak furniture—but there were lots of vivid accents: pillows and rugs, a multicolored blanket over the back of a chair, lush green plants. On the walls, framed color photographs looked like they’d been taken in Greece, Italy, maybe Spain, for all that he knew anything about Europe. They were a contrast to the music that was playing: Loretta Lynn’s “Coal Miner’s Daughter.”
    The fireplace was a big old brick one, but a black insert had been added, and the burning wood generated real heat. A framed photo on the mantel showed an attractive young couple with a redheaded girl maybe two or three years old, all of them sprawled on the floor beside a decorated Christmas tree and surrounded by gifts and wrapping paper. A portion of that very same mantel showed in a top corner of the photo.
    â€œNice room,” Mo commented, sitting on the sofa and putting the mugs on coasters on the coffee table. She’d put the vase down there, beside a closed laptop computer. “You take those pictures on the wall?”
    â€œYes. Every two or three years, I go for a holiday someplace special.”
    â€œYou must be doing well with that thrift shop to afford a nice house like this and take fancy holidays.” Then he said, “Sorry. I’m not so good with the social graces. Guess that wasn’t the most polite thing to say.”
    â€œIt’s okay.” She pulled up the chair so it was across the coffee table from where he sat and then took off her slippers. Before she tucked her bare feet up under her, he caught a glimpse of sexy red toenails, painted to match her fingernails.
    Cradling her own mug in both hands, she said, “Actually, I don’t take much money for myself from Days of Your. I have enough money to get by nicely, thanks to my folks. Dad was a civil engineer and Mom was a dentist, and