Description: Chapter One I went up in a hot-air balloon once, when I was ten. The fair had come to Abbey Hills, and all the kids were buzzing about the ride. Everyone would be talking about it the next day, and I was determined that, for once, I''d have something to talk about too. The thing was, I knew I''d never get to go if I asked, so I snatched five dollars from Mom''s purse and went anyway. Mom blamed Dad. He''d taken her last five dollars before when the shakes got the better of him and the call of whiskey grew too loud to ignore. He never even defended himself against the accusation. Just apologized and promised to do better. I felt a little guilty about that, but nothing could have kept me from that balloon ride. I knew I''d made a mistake the second I climbed into the basket and outrageous fear took hold of my gut. I could have gotten off before the rope released and lift took over, but I didn''t. Good choices aren''t my strong suit. F unny how much a person could sober up between last call and time to call a cab. An hour ago, when Nina had devised the brilliant idea of surprising Hunt and spending Christmas with him and the kids, she''d confidently imagined the warmth of his open arms. But now, as she stood on his doorstep watching the cab drive away into the dark, wee hours of the morning, she realized it had been an incredibly dumb idea. That was the problem with being only a little drunk--a girl was clear enough to see how stupid she was but not clear enough to make a smart decision. An icy splash of wind shot across the porch, making her shiver as she waffled between knocking and risking the disgusted look on Hunt''s face and running down the street in three-inch heels after the cab that had just rounded the corner. Resolute, she ignored the voice telling her to sit on the porch all night and freeze to death. In the morning, Hunt would find her frozen corpse, and then wouldn''t everyone be sorry for the way they''d treated her? She knocked, taking extra care to avoid brushing against the eleven-year-old Christmas wreath--still as ugly as the day Hunt''s mother had given it to her. Stomping her feet on the porch, she hugged her body to ward off the cold. Patience had never been her thing. And at thirty-four years old, she wasn''t likely to develop any, so everyone could just deal with it. Come on, Hunt. It''s the North Pole out here. She raised her fist again. The porch light snapped on just as she was about to knock a second time. Relief poured through her, feeling a lot like that first warm rush of a semi-dry white wine. Pushing back her hair, she arranged her mouth into the smile she knew showed off her dimple best. Please be happy to see me. A foolish hope, she knew, considering he had divorced her six months ago. In view of that, she''d settle for not ticked. The door opened. Nina''s stomach took a dive at Hunt''s dark, sleep-tossed hair. Why did he have to look so good? He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. "It''s two in the morning. What do you think you''re doing?" Not the greeting she''d been praying for, but then prayer wasn''t really her thing. "You invited me for Christmas Eve." Her hands trembled. She shoved them into the pockets of her black leather jacket. It had been a Christmas present from him last year, just before he''d finally ended things between them for good. Nice consolation prize. She raised her chin. Buck up, Nina. Never let him see you cry. "The party''s been over for a long time. You missed it." His eyes raked up and down her body, and not in a flattering way. "Looks like you made a party somewhere else, though." She shrugged. "Well, you missed out. Meagan and Adam are in bed. Sleeping." "I figured. Guess I shouldn''t have come." "Probably not." "Okay." An awkward silence thickened the icy air between them. "So I shouldn''t have come." Nina dimpled. Time to turn on the charm. "But now that I''m here, do you think I can stay? I''d like to be here in the morning when the kids wake up." "No, Nina. Not when you''ve been drinking." "I jus'' want to see them open their presents." Nina bit her lip hard. She''d slurred. Hunt hated that. His mouth tightened, eyes cold. He didn''t bother to respond. She waved toward the street. "Well, my cab seems to have gone, so I really don''t have any choice but to stay." He drew a long, drawn-out breath. His God, give me patience breath. "The cab may be gone, but you''ve still been drinking." "You don''t have to keep saying that!" Nina closed her eyes and gained control. "I know I''ve been drinking a little, but I know better than to come over when I''m drunk. See?" She took three steps across the porch, then three steps back. Too bad her legs had crossed as she walked. Twice. Her lips curved. A conscious effort. "Dang heels." "Right." He rubbed his chin, his sign of weariness. "I''ll call another cab." She grabbed his arm before he could turn away. "Hunt." Heat radiated from the touch, and their eyes met. His beautiful pools of blue, so honest in their search. He seemed to always be searching. For the woman she used to be? Nina wondered if he was remembering when he still cared. Every second of their relationship replayed in her mind. A heartbeat, a lifetime. Christmas mornings around the tree, peals of excitement, loving. Each wonderful second of joy. The heart-ripping torture of a home torn apart with her own hands. Nina softened her grip to a light touch."Pretty please? Just this once. For me?" She knew she''d said the wrong thing even before his face hardened and his eyes lost the softness that only a second ago had weakened her knees. "No," he said, his voice ice, even colder than the god-awful air. "You can come in and wait for the cab if you want." In the face of such blatant and harsh rejection, sarcasm worked its way into her tone. "I thought you didn''t want me in your precious house." "I don''t. But I don''t want you getting sick out here in the cold either." He stepped aside to let her in. "Come on." "No, thanks." Too bad she''d given up smoking. Now would have been a great time to nonchalantly light a cigarette and blow smoke in his self-righteous face. "Suit yourself. But try not to make a scene. I saw Mr. Taylor staring out his window. You don''t want him calling the cops again." Nina turned and looked up at the second-story window in the house across the street. The curtain fluttered. "Nosy old piss ant." Hunt grinned. "I''ll be right back." He peered closely at her, and Nina''s breath stilled at the softness in his face. "Be good." "Please let me stay," she whispered. His lips flattened into a grim line, and his guard flew back up. "You just can''t leave well enough alone, can you?" Nina''s eyes swam as he stepped inside and closed the door. She stared at the big, blurry wreath bow in front of her as she tried to wrap her foggy brain around the facts. Instead of sinking into the pillow-top mattress in the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs and waking to happy squeals from her kids, she''d be waking up to a messy studio apartment and A Christmas Story marathon on cable. Hunt wasn''t being fair. She shook as anger ignited in her gut. The elaborate wreath stared back at her, a mocking reminder that she''d never been good enough for Hunt. She''d always hated that ugly, gaudy thing. Hunt''s mother had given it to them their first Christmas together. "Now don''t be offended, hon, but Christmas just isn''t Christmas without a wreath hanging on the front door." Well, when you''d been working three jobs to pay for school and raising a daughter alone, there wasn''t much leftover for fancy lobster dinners and fifty-dollar wreaths, was there? Every Christmas of their eleven years together, Nina''s sense of duty had walked her to the door and lifted her arms as she hung the wreath on it. Well, guess what? She reached up, snatched the ugly, fake-pine, bell-and-baubleladen monstrosity from its nail and began ripping it apart. She yanked and pulled, tore and tugged until all that remained in her hand was the shredded bow. Elation exploded through her, shooting a flood of laughter from her lips. "Nina!" She hadn''t heard Hunt open the door. Still reeling with guilty pleasure, Nina turned to face him, but he wasn''t looking at her. Instead, his bewildered gaze rested on the remnants of the wreath. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at her. Fever rose to her cheeks. "You know I always hated it." His silent stare shouted through the foggy mist in her brain. "Don''t look at me like that." Like she was something to be pitied. "Nina, this has to stop. What''s it going to take? You need--" "No, don''t tell me. Let me guess. I need religion." Nina threw the wrinkled bow onto the porch. It landed in the middle of the mangled wreat

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