Page 37 of Blame it on the Mistletoe
Noah rested his forehead against hers. “He’s your father. Of course you still love him. People aren’t all good or all bad. Some make better choices than others. But none of what you’ve told me changes anything about the way I feel for you.”
And, right then, sitting under a blanket of stars, Faith fell headfirst into every kind of love with Noah Tucker.
Chapter Eleven
Saturday morning dawned early on the day of the Shindig, tapping a steady rhythm on Faith’s eyelids for her to rise and shine.
“Five more minutes,” she pleaded, pulling the covers over her head. That was her Christmas wish. Five more minutes of being horizontal and snuggled under the cozy blanket. Five more minutes to dream about Noah and his magical mouth.
That whole night had been magical. From the minute he took her hand until he helped her to her car—kissing her good-night before she drove off—the man never missed a step. Even when she’d confessed about her family. He’d been so understanding, patiently listening while she went into greater detail about her life with Hope.
She felt safe with him. No, he worked hard to make her feel safe. Every touch, look, and thoughtful word was a testament to the kind of man he was. Nothing about him was impulsive or rash, and selfishness went against his very nature. Noah was stable and honorable, and even though she had no idea how things would work between them when he went back to Austin, Faith had zero doubt there was a “them.”
Faith was in a “them” with Noah. A warm burst bubbled up from her belly, leaving her dizzy with happiness. Not only were things in her love life progressing nicely, but all fifty-dozen cookies had been baked, frosted, wrapped, and were spread out on her kitchen counter, ready to go. And she’d managed to catch two whole hours of sleep.
She was tempted to add a third but wanted to check on her cookies and make sure all the frosting and piping had held under the cellophane bags.
She pulled on her housecoat, freshened up in the bathroom, and headed for the kitchen, turning up the thermostat on the way. Coffee fix satisfied, she inspected her cookies, pleased with the end result. She had frosted and painted them, adding edible sparkles in the white piping, so the trim and ball of the Santa hat caught the sunlight.
Selecting a bear whose hat was deformed from the reject pile, she took a bite, giddy at where it fell on the yummy scale. The maple frosting was a delicious contrast to the peppery hint of the ginger and rich molasses.
She took another bite as the doorbell rang. Looking at the clock, she wondered who would show up so early. Then she thought of Mable’s threat and groaned.
Cinching her bathrobe belt, she peered through the peephole and her heat leapt. It was Noah.
She turned to lean against the door, a smile the size of the North Pole completely overtaking her face. She could feel the heat building in her cheeks, and her heart beat faster and faster.
Taking a deep breath, she ran her fingers through her hair, then breathed into her hand—thank God she’d brushed her teeth.
She opened the door and there he was. Looking big and beautiful—and all hers.
“Hey,” she said, rolling her eyes at how lame she sounded. “This is a surprise. Not to mention, perfect timing. I have to transport six hundred cookies from my kitchen to my car and get them to the bake sale in a little over an hour.”
“Hey, angel,” he said, in a tone she couldn’t quite place. But it wasn’t good.
He ran a hand through his hair, which was going every which direction, as if he’d been tugging at it all morning. And his posture was similar to how he’d looked during the early stages of the wrapping party.
“You want to come in?” She opened the door wide and everything slowed to a stop.
Logan stood behind Noah.Sheriff,she corrected, taking in his uniform, grim expression, and the way his hands rested on his belt, tugging at his coat and making everything important visible.
“Is Pax home?” Logan asked.
There was no reason for the knot of terror forming between her ribs. She’d known these men for half her life. But she knew those looks as well and everything inside her screamed to lock the door and hide.
“He’s asleep. Why?”
“You might want to wake him,” Noah said at the same time that Logan held up a pack of papers and informed her, “We have a warrant to search the bedroom and belongings of Pax Loren on One-Eighty-Three Wildwood Lane.”
Every last shred of hope dwindled in her body, like water down a drain.
“You’ve known my brother since he was a baby,” she said to Logan. “You don’t have to run through his identifiers.”
“It’s protocol.”
Faith looked at Noah, who remained silent.
“I see.” She cleared her throat. “What is the warrant for and why do you need to search his room?” She leaned a casual shoulder against the doorjamb, slanting her body so she was blocking the entry.
