Page 28 of No Room in the Inn
I huff. “I’m notsomething else—”
“You went through my wallet because you wanted to see if I fit whatever Hallmark stereotype you have built up for me in your head,” he says. He finally lets his grin loose. “Are you maybe taking the Hallmark thing too far?”
I falter, at a loss for words as I consider. He might,maybe, have a teensy weensy, itty bitty point. I clear my throat. “It’s…possible,” I say. I can feel my cheeks heating, and I’m confident my sheepish, embarrassed face is alive and well and on full display.
He smiles, looking triumphant as he turns his body to face me, and it’s only now that I notice the dimples at the corners of his lips.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself. “Dimples? Really?” The Good Lord gave this manwaytoo much to work with in the looks department. Couldn’t He have eased up a bit? Added some crooked teeth, maybe, or a lopsided nose or something?
“Sorry?” Nixon says, and his green eyes are suddenly sparkling with something mischievous that I don’t like one bit. “Did you say something? Something about my dimples, for example?”
“What? I—you—no,” I say, though I’m clearly lying, and we both know it.
Nixon just nods, looking way too pleased with himself. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Sure. I believe you.”
“You’re getting off track,” I say, desperate to change the subject.
“Oh, that’s true,” he says, still grinning. “We were talking about your unhealthy obsession with Hallmark movies. Or were we talking about how you went through my wallet? It’s all a bit of a blur—”
“I don’t have an unhealthy obsession,” I say. I shake my head. “In fact, if anyone had an unhealthy obsession, it was Granny. And don’t try to convince me otherwise; you know I’m right.I’mjust trying to honor her last wishes by having a Hallmark-worthy Christmas season in Woodfield.”
“Hmm.” Nixon looks amused, like he’s not really buying it but is willing to humor me. “All right. Let’s go back to your original question, then. What do people do in Hallmark movies?” He gestures to the pen and paper on the couch next to me. “Are you ready to make a list?”
I pick them up and pull them in my lap. Before we begin, I slip the hair tie from my wrist and pull my hair up into a high ponytail so that it doesn’t keep falling in my face while I try to write. “Okay,” I say. “I’m ready.” I look at Nixon.
And he’s looking at me, too, but his eyes seem to be lingering on the curve of my exposed neck rather than making eye contact.
“Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of his face.
He blinks, and his gaze flies up to meet mine.
“Eyes up here,” I say, pointing to my face.
He at least has the decency to look embarrassed, which frankly surprises me. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat and looking disconcerted. “I’m back.” He crosses his legs, resting one ankle on his knee, and relaxes further into the couch.
“Hallmark,” I say, tapping my pen against my notebook.
He nods. “Right. Okay. What do you have so far?”
“Ice skating”—I scribble this down at the top of the paper—“and snowball fights.”
Nixon nods again. “Good start. Let’s see…” He thinks for a second. “All right. Christmas caroling”—I begin jotting down his ideas—“gingerbread cookies, decorating a tree—”
“Sledding,” I add. “Snowmen.”
“Sledding, snowmen,” he repeats. “Ugly sweater party.”
“That’s what the dress was for,” I say, still scribbling things down.
“What dress?” he says.
I roll my eyes at the memory. “The one I got stuck in before the parade. Sarah—my best friend—originally bought it for an ugly sweater party.”
Nixon doesn’t reply, and when I look up at him, he’s wearing an amused expression.
“What’s that face for?” I say absently, still trying to think of more Hallmark activities.
He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing. It just…wasn’t ugly.”
