Free That Wintry Feeling (Debbie Macomber Classics) by Debbie Macomber

discovered Angela playing house with the dog, placing him in the bed and pulling the covers over his head. If he’d been free, the scene in the kitchen would have never been allowed to go as far as it did.
    A look of impatience flickered over Grady’s expression. “I refuse to be deterred by a mutt,” he declared, taking out a huge bone from the bottom of the sack. “If you want to play protector, do it with this.” He held up the bone, and Peterkins leaped into the air in a futile attempt to reach the goodie. Grady stooped down to pet the dog. “Later, buddy, later.”
    Flickering flames leaped out between pieces of wood as Grady, Angela, and Cathy sat onthe carpet, their backs supported by the front of the sofa. Shadows danced across the room, forming mime figures on the opposite wall. An empty bag of marshmallows was carelessly tossed onto the coffee table while the last song softly faded.
    Angela yawned and crawled onto the couch, tucking her hands and knees into a tight ball. “I’m sleepy, Daddy and Cathy,” she said, on another long, drawn-out yawn. “This is almost like being a real family, isn’t it?”
    Grady’s arm rested across Cathy’s shoulder. “Yes, it is,” he whispered.
    Together they sat before the fire. There didn’t seem to be a need for words. Her neck rested against his arm, and for the first time in recent memory, Cathy felt utterly content.
    In a series of agile movements, Grady placed another log on the fire, moved into the kitchen, and returned with an open bottle of wine and the wineglasses. Peterkins was nowhere to be seen. “Maybe Angela would rest better in a bed. Mind if I put her in your room?” he asked softly, as if afraid he would wake the sleeping child.
    “Sure, go ahead,” she agreed lazily.
    He left her momentarily and smiled when he returned. He lowered himself onto the carpeting beside her. Filling the wineglass, he handed it to Cathy. When his own glass was ready, he paused, holding it up. “To what shall we drink?”
    Laying her head against the sofa cushion, Cathy closed her eyes. “To the personals?”
    Grady chuckled and gently tapped her glass with his. “To the personals.”
    They both sipped the wine. “To the Red Baron,” she offered next.
    “And Snoopy.” Grady touched the rim of the glasses again before taking a sip.
    The sauvignon blanc was marvelous, light, and refreshing.
    “This is good,” Cathy murmured, after her second glass. “Very good.”
    “So is this.” He took the stemmed glass out of her hand and placed it on the coffee table.
    I should stop him,
Cathy thought, lifting a strand of hair away from her face.
It’s going to happen all over again. Grady’s going to kiss me and I won’t be able to respond.
The reasoning was there, but the desire to put a halt to his intentions wasn’t.
    Grady stared at her for a long minute, his eyes darkening to an intense blue as his hands framed her face. Slowly, as if waiting for her to stop him, he lowered his mouth to hers.
    Cathy parted her lips, but whether in protest or welcome she didn’t know. Her arms circled his neck as the pressure of his mouth hardened over hers. Where once there had been afeeling of dread, a warmth, an acceptance, began to flow, spreading throughout her until she moaned softly.
    Grady broke the contact, his mouth hovering inches above hers until their breaths merged. Gently, lovingly, his hands caressed the sides of her neck, slowly descending over her shoulders while he spread tender kisses on her temples and face.
    The gentle quality of his touch brought the first trace of tears to her eyes.
It’s the wine,
she told herself. Crying was a ridiculous response to being kissed. This was beautiful, lovely. She should never have drunk the wine.
    One tear slid down her flushed cheek. When Grady’s lips encountered the wetness, he paused and kissed it away. His mouth met each tear as it escaped, and soon his lips were investigating every inch of her face. Her cheek,