Free One Christmas Knight by Robyn Grady

Monday, December 20
     
    DAMON KNIGHT had thought Point St. Claire’s only realtor office was empty―until he caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee then heard a run of choked sobs. Clearly a private moment for the person involved. Anyone else would creep back out the way they’d come.
    But Damon was a doctor. He’d taken an oath. Someone might be hurt. Need his help.
    Edging forward, beyond the buttressed front counter, he found brokerage manager Emma Bagwell clutching a glittery Christmas card. The second she sensed company, Emma jolted off the chair to her feet. Dashing moisture away from her cheek, she assumed an unconvincing business-as-usual face and slid the card to one side.
    Damon shut his hanging jaw. Emma ‘Bad-ass’ Bagwell—the woman who prided herself on needing no one and nothing—was crying over a card? Right. And maybe later, he’d see Frosty the Snowman come to life.
    “I stroked the neighbor’s cat this morning.” Emma snatched a tissue from a handy box and brushed it under her nose. “I’m allergic. Eyes puff up. Throat closes.
    Damon cleared his own throat. Sure, if that’s how she wanted to play it. He resumed his doctor’s air.
    “Have you tried antihistamines?”
    “Wouldn’t help.”
    “They’re great for most people with—”
    “I said it wouldn’t help.”
    With her long blond waves and brave blue eyes, Emma exuded a sensuality that had less to do with her dynamite dimensions and more with that ‘no comprise’ spirit. In Emma’s world, breathalysers were compulsory in all vehicles― no blow, no drive ―every egg was free-range, and no child went without breakfast or lunch, courtesy of the state if need be.
    The first time they met, they’d discussed world security. The conversation had become heated then bubbled over big time. Voices were raised. So were emotions.
    Then something primal had snapped and exploded in them both. He’d taken her in his arms and kissed her for all he was worth. Emma Bagwell had given just as much back.
    Since then, Emma had gone out of her way to either avoid or ignore him. In a small town like Point St. Claire, not so easy. But she hadn’t forgotten how they had fused in that steamy moment any more than he had. Hell, he sometimes dreamed about it. Enough chemistry to launch Santa’s sleigh ballistic-missile style.
    Now, Emma balled the tissue in a fist before lifting her chin and crossing her arms―stoic, and stubborn, again.
    “Is there something I can do for you, Damon?”
    “I need your professional services.” When she barely stifled a put-upon sigh, he frowned. “What?”
    She blinked at him. “ What , what?”
    “You just heaved out a breath like I’d asked you to hang a mountain of laundry.”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    “Not a bit.”
    Another sigh. “Whatever.”
    Damon set his jaw. Unbelievable .
    “Is it that bad,” he said, “that you can’t stomach me for five minutes?”
    “I had a light breakfast.” She grinned. “That should help.”
    He drove a hand through his hair. God knows, he shouldn’t goad her. Be the mature one, Damon. Let it go .
    “I have to ask,” he said, “did you have a particularly nasty childhood? Do I have the words Dump On Me inked on my forehead.”
    Her arms tightened over her chest. “Psychology 101. You don’t have to like everyone, and not everyone will want to like you.”
    “Well, see, that’s the funny part, because as much as you’d like to deny it, you do like me, Emma. And while for the life of me I sometimes don’t know why, I like you, too.”
    The office door whooshed open. Wearing paint-splattered overalls and ancient Bean boots, Judd Everett ambled in.
    The seventy-something-year-old handyman had lived at the Point all his life, as had his ancestors going right back to Year Dot. Judd had a repertoire of local stories, including a Halloween tale that involved the town lighthouse. To add credence to the story, strange things had happened up on that cliff this