Free Once Upon a Christmas Eve by Christine Flynn

open doorway, leaving him staring at her slender back. Wondering at her contradictions, impressed by the sheer number of them, his suspicion turned to absolute certainty.
    If he’d learned anything about women in the past thirty-eight years, it was that nothing always meant something. And there was now no doubt in his mind that Tommi Fairchild had something on hers that she wasn’t sharing.
    He wanted to know what that something was. But the fact that it was personal gave him pause. No one understood the need to keep certain information private better than he did. Particularly when it involved a person’s family. Not that he had any idea what family was supposed to be. The whole concept was pretty much foreign to him.
    Unlike Tommi, he didn’t talk about his relatives. There wasn’t a thing he could say about his lineage that wouldn’t earn him scorn or a cold shoulder in certain circles, or evoke pity in others. He never lied about his past. He just judiciously omitted certain details about how he’d made it through school and precisely where he’d lived growing up. As for his one attempt to create a family of his own, his short-lived marriage to Jenna Walsh had ended shortly after her old boyfriend decided he wanted her back. Its demisehad also left him with her bills and a profound appreciation for the benefits of remaining unencumbered.
    With the clench of his jaw, he cut off the ancient memories. What he needed to concentrate on was how he’d deal with the woman heading back to her kitchen. Tommi’s approach to finances was the polar opposite of his own. He would keep his focus on that, not on her unwitting reminders of his past, and definitely not on the softness of her tentative smile when she walked in to see him waiting for her. He would even let go of his curiosity about whatever it was she insisted was “nothing.”
    For now.

Chapter Four
    T ommi had expected Max to return to her ledgers while his coffee brewed. Finding him right where she’d left him by the plating station, not trusting the speculation sharpening his sculpted features, she quickly checked the digital timers ticking down on two of the ovens and the stock pots simmering on the stove.
    â€œDid you want something else?” she asked, torn between the need to keep him from pressing about the little secret she guarded, and the need to get to the rollitini she’d barely started.
    â€œJust to talk to you. I’m finished with your books.”
    Her breath slithered out.
    â€œOh,” she murmured, anxiety taking another shift. “Is here okay?”
    When he had first arrived, all she’d wanted was to know if her bistro interested him. As torn as she was about giving up the total control she now had over her business, her impatience seemed truly ironic.
    That finer point was lost, however, as she closed the kitchen door. She felt bad doing that. The Olsons didn’t come only for a meal. They came for her company, and that of her staff.
    â€œThere’s more room here than in the office, and I need to keep an eye on things in the oven.”
    â€œHere works.”
    â€œThen, I’ll prepare you something while we talk,” she said, on her way to the refrigerator. “I’m sure you’ll want to taste my food before you make any decisions.”
    â€œYour food is exceptional.”
    She’d made it as far as the plating station. “You’ve never tasted it.”
    â€œActually, I have. I asked my assistant and some of our accounting staff to eat lunch here yesterday. I also had Margie bring me takeout.”
    â€œMargie?”
    â€œMy assistant. Even if I hadn’t,” he continued easily, “it’s obvious your food brings people in. You’re not in a location where you can count on a lot of foot traffic. We’ll get to that later, though,” he promised. “Right now, we need to talk about your expenses.”
    Leaning