Trading Christmas - Debbie Macomber [103]
“It wasn’t exactly an offer—but it was something like that,” Lindy replied vaguely. She set aside the cookie sheet, smiled at Cait and then carried the platter into the living room.
For the past couple of weeks Cait had noticed that something was troubling her friend. It hadn’t been anything she could readily name. Just that Lindy hadn’t been her usual high-spirited self. Cait had meant to ask her about it, but she’d been so busy herself, so involved with her own problems, that she’d never brought it up.
She was still sitting there rubbing her feet when Joe sauntered into the kitchen, nibbling on a cheese cracker. “I thought I’d find you in here.” He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
“Has she arrived yet?”
“Apparently so.”
Cait dropped her foot and frantically worked the shoe back and forth until she’d managed to squeeze her toes inside. Then she forced her other foot into its shoe. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something sooner?” she chastised. She stood up, ran her hands down the satin skirt and drew a shaky breath. “How do I look?”
“Like your feet hurt.”
She sent him a scalding frown. “Thank you very much,” she said sarcastically for the second time in under ten minutes. Hobbling to the door, she opened it a crack and peeked out, hoping to catch sight of the mystery woman. From what she could see, there weren’t any new arrivals.
“What does she look like?” Cait demanded and whirled around to discover Joe standing directly behind her. She nearly collided with him and gave a small cry of surprise. Joe caught her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling. Eager to question him about Paul’s date, she didn’t take the time to analyze why her heartrate soared when his hands made contact with her bare skin.
“What does she look like?” Cait asked again.
“I don’t know,” Joe returned flippantly.
“What do you mean you don’t know? You just said she’d arrived.”
“Unfortunately she doesn’t have a tattoo across her forehead announcing that she’s the woman Paul’s dating.”
“Then how do you know she’s here?” If Joe was playing games with her, she’d make damn sure he’d regret it. Her love for Paul was no joking matter.
“It’s more a feeling I have.”
“You had me stuff my feet back into these shoes for a stupid feeling?” It was all she could do not to slap him silly. “You are no friend of mine, Joseph Rockwell. No friend whatsoever.” Having said that, she limped back into the living room.
Obviously unscathed by her remark, Joe wandered out of the kitchen behind her. He walked over to the tray of canapés and helped himself to three or four while Cait did her best to ignore him.
Since the punch bowl was close by, she poured herself a second glass. The taste was sweet and cold, but Cait noticed that she felt a bit light-headed afterward. Potent drinks didn’t sit well on an empty stomach, so she scooped up a handful of mixed nuts.
“I remember a time when you used to line up all the Spanish peanuts and eat those first,” Joe said from behind her. “Then it was the hazelnuts, followed by the—”
“Almonds.” Leave it to him to bring up her foolish past. “I haven’t done that since I was—”
“Twenty,” he guessed.
“Twenty-five,” she corrected.
Joe laughed, and despite her aching feet and the certainty that she should never have come to this party, Cait laughed, too.
Refilling her punch glass, she downed it all in a single drink. Once more, it tasted cool and refreshing.
“Cait,” Joe warned, “how much punch have you had?”
“Not enough.” She filled the crystal cup a third time—or was it the fourth?—squared her shoulders and gulped it down. When she’d finished, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and smiled bravely.
“Are you purposely trying to get drunk?” he demanded.
“No.” She reached for another handful of nuts. “All I’m looking for is a little courage.”
“Courage?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “The way I figure it…” She paused, smiling giddily, then whirled around in a full circle. “There is some mistletoe here,