Page 27 of No Room in the Inn

“Ah,” I say, holding up one finger, “but in the letter she asked me to experience Christmas in Woodfield and to reconcile with my parents, thereby giving her the Christmas miracle she always wanted. And she wanted me to look in on you,” I add. “How is that not Hallmark-y?”

His lips twitch. “All right, that’s maybe a little Hallmark-y.”

“Thank you,” I say, sounding as dignified as I can manage. “So like I said this morning, I just figured you were probably the crotchety town Scrooge. You would be grumpy all the time, but ultimately your heart would soften as you fell in love with me and learned the true meaning of Christmas.”

There’s one ringing second of silence before I realize what I’ve said.

“In the movie,” I add hastily. “Fall in love with mein the movie. Not in real life.”

Nixon cocks one eyebrow, looking amused. “Nice to see you’re planning our future—”

“I’m not!” I say.

“Plus I already know the true meaning of Christmas. And I’d hardly call myself a crotchety old Scrooge,” he points out, ignoring my protest.

I have to admit I agree with that one. The man dresses up as Santa for a living. “No, you’re right,” I say. “You’re hardly in need of more Christmas spirit.” I hesitate, suddenly sensing an opening. “And you don’t have…you know. A tragic past or anything?”

His face clouds for the briefest second before he smiles. “Such as?”

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “I don’t know. You could be a widower, maybe. Or orphaned when you were young?”

“No,” he says, his eyes sparkling again. He pauses, then says, “You know that’s really morbid, right? And what would you have said if I had answered yes? How bad would you feel if I were secretly mourning my deceased wife, and you brought it up?”

“I was pretty sure that wasn’t it,” I say quickly. “No wedding ring,” I add when he looks at me curiously. “And no picture in your wallet.”

His dark eyebrows shoot up, almost reaching his hairline.

Crap. I shouldn’t have said that.

“Other than that, though,” I say quickly, hoping to divert his attention. Judging by the almost offensive level of suspicion on his face, I’m failing. I go on anyway. “Other than that, this is a total Hallmark situation. You’re the only thing off; you were supposed to be the grumpy town loner.”

His eyes narrow. “I might get grumpy if I find out you went through my wallet to look for pictures of my nonexistent deceased wife.”

I swallow, my pulse picking up, and I look down at my hands, trying to quell both my anxiety and my shame.

Don’t say anything. Play it cool.

I glance back up at Nixon. He’s still staring at me with narrowed eyes.

Crap.

“I did it!” I wail, burying my face in my hands so that he can’t see me and I can’t see him. So much for playing it cool. “I looked in your wallet. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I just wanted…” I trail off, my voice a barely audible whisper now.

“To pry into my business,” he says, his voice flat.

I’m too ashamed to speak or even take my face out of my hands. I give an infinitesimal nod instead.

There’s silence on the other end of the couch, and I’m too scared to look up and see what’s causing said silence. Is he glaring at me? Is he angry? Is he plotting my demise?

Well, probably not that last one. Although, you know, maybe, considering how opposed he is to my plans for the inn. He’s probably going to start yelling at me. Or maybe he’s one of those that just gets quietly disappointed; that’s even worse. I wait with bated breath, listening.

What I don’t expect to hear is a little sound that resembles nothing so much as a snort.

I finally look at Nixon, my curiosity winning out over my anxiety. He’s looking at me, his lips twitching, and it takes me a second to realize what I’m seeing.

“Are you—are you laughing?” I ask, incredulous. Isn’t he angry? He seemed angry.

Nixon shrugs, the corners of his mouth still trying to pull into a smile. “You’re something else, you know that?”

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