Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [33]
Harold worked his mouth into a smile and patted Summers’s back. “Exactly. And don’t worry about Richards. He’s the moron. I’ll get my coat and meet you by lot number five.”
Lex hurried Heather through the cold, windy parking lot to her car.
“It’s over there,” she said, pointing a gloved hand. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know, I know. Let’s just say I like to do it. It doesn’t mean I think you’re not capable of getting out to your car by yourself.”
Heather laughed. Being with Lex was so nice, so easy. In the past two days their relationship had deepened—she’d heard that getting through a crisis made that happen sometimes. It was an awfully thin silver lining, she thought as they kept walking, but it would have to do.
They stopped at her car. “Here it is,” she said. “Now you hurry over to Lot Number Five. Eric and Harold are probably waiting for you.”
Lex grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Let them wait. I’ve got something important on my mind.” He rested his hand on the car roof and leaned close to her. His breath was soft and warm on her cheek and his eyes held hers softly.
Heather lifted her face, offering her lips to his kiss. He gathered her in his arms and held her close, tight against him. “Mmmm,” he sighed into her ear. “I wish I was going home with you rather than Summers.”
Heather laughed lightly. “I do, too, but you have to get together with Eric and Harold. No way am I going to be responsible for breaking up the three musketeers. On your way, mister.” She gave him a gentle push. “If it’s not too late when you’re through, give me a call.”
“Will do,” he told her, touching her lips with his once again.
Angela scanned the interior of the burger place for an empty booth. The lighting was dim and she found it soothing after the brightness of the mall. Still, she had to peer intently between the tinsel and artificial greenery that hung from the beams overhead.
She almost wanted to put her hands over her ears and keep them there. God, she was tired of Christmas carols. Especially “Jingle Bells.” Didn’t they have any other holiday recordings? Even “Rudolph” would have been an improvement.
Fighting her way between strollers pushed by harried mothers, Angela made her way to what looked like one of the waiting lines. She tapped her foot impatiently, to the undisguised annoyance of the woman behind her. As if she cared. If the woman could put up with the little kid pulling on her trouser leg, she could certainly put up with Angela’s nervousness. She switched from floor tapping to nail nibbling as she moved slowly to the front of the line. “Two coffees,” she muttered finally, forgetting to take plastic lids. The scalding coffee slopped all over her hands and wrists as she turned, but she barely noticed it. She waited patiently for an elderly couple to vacate the booth next to her and immediately sat down. The woman with the little boy fixed her with an angry look and spoke in an offended tone. “You could have taken a small table. Why do you have to grab the last booth?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m waiting for someone,” Angela said, indicating the second cup of coffee.
“I just bet you are. You college kids are all alike. You take over and hog everything.”
Angela frowned at the woman, not understanding why she was so upset. Then she looked pointedly at the child, who was now demanding an ice cream cone and some French fries to go with it, which were sure to upset his digestion. And a seat—hers. Maybe if she had a child like that she would be rude, too. She didn’t budge.
Several minutes later, Angela was startled as a shadow fell across her table. She glanced up and sighed with relief.
“I wasn’t sure if it was you. It’s kinda dark in here,” Charlie Roman said as he wedged himself between the orange table and the brown plastic seat.
“You’re right. It looks like they took out all the overhead lights and put in those tiny colored ones. More Christmassy, I guess. Here,” she said, sliding