Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [10]
Charlie slammed the door of his Chevy twice before the latch held. He pulled the collar of his gray wool jacket closer about his thick neck. People hurried between the mall and the parking lot, but Charlie plodded toward the entrance doors with a slow, careful gait. He wasn’t taking a chance on slipping on the thin film of ice and falling.
Passing through Parking Lot Five, he noticed Heather Andrews heading for her car. She seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the snow. He wanted to smile at her. Ms. Andrews was always friendly to him. Several times, at employee meetings, she had looked his way and said hello. He liked Heather and had toyed with the idea of asking her out. She was one person who seemed to see beyond his shyness to the sincere, sensitive man inside. Charlie had even fantasized that she would accept his invitation with a sweet smile lighting her pretty face. The thought of a date with her had exhilarated him for weeks.
Charlie’s eye caught a familiar figure coming toward him. Felex Lassiter. Nice guy. Preparing himself for Lex’s greeting, he was thinking of something noncommittal to say about the weather when Lex veered off to the left, toward Heather. Charlie took a few more steps and turned around. They were both getting into the car.
Together.
Charlie’s anger rose. He hadn’t known those two were a couple. So much for his fantasy. It was pointless—Heather never would have looked twice at him. He wasn’t worth looking at. What a fool he’d been to hope.
He laughed out loud, a great, roaring laugh. Forgetting to watch his footing, he felt his leather soles slip on the ice and down he went. Red-faced, he quickly glanced around, expecting to see hordes of people standing around, pointing and jeering. Instead there was only a too-thin girl watching him with worried brown eyes.
“You okay?” she asked. “I think I got in your way. I’m sorry.”
“No, you didn’t. I wasn’t watching where I was going! Give me your hand.”
Angela extended her arm, bracing her feet against Charlie’s weight.
Charlie seemed to resent her assistance, hefting himself up most of the way. Immediately the girl began to brush his shoulders. “Quit it,” he said roughly. “A little snow never killed anyone.”
Peering intently into her eyes, he tried to judge whether or not she was putting him on. Nobody cared about him. Ever.
“Really, are you sure you’re all right? I didn’t mean to . . . I’ve got something on my mind. I didn’t even see you.” Angela herself was surprised at her reaction. Considering the mood she was in, she could have knocked down the president of the United States and she wouldn’t have given him a backward glance.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I’ve got to get back to work.” His tone was harsh, annoyed.
He saw the girl’s eyes focus on his face. “You work here?”
Nosy question. He didn’t soften. “I’m the behind-the-scenes guy for Santa Claus. I make sure he doesn’t run out of candy canes, and I keep the kids off the cotton snow and tell them not to pull his fake beard. Hell of a gig, but the pay’s okay.”
“I thought Santa Claus was supposed to be kind—What am I saying? You’re not him. Oh well, never mind,” Angela snapped back, and turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he called after her as she nimbly ran across the ice, dodging cars as she went. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” she retorted. “I never did believe in Santa Claus anyway.”
Charlie watched her go, a knot of strange emotions choking him. For one instant there, he had thought he’d seen some real concern in the girl’s face. Then he dismissed the ridiculous notion.
Nah. She was just an airhead like all the rest. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it