LITMIR.BIZ

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her nervous. Which was good.

      “You…have…it…on…backwards.”

      He could look at it in a different way. Not that she was laughing at him, but that he’d succeeded. The sparkle of tears were gone from her eyes, replaced, that quickly, with the sparkle of laughter.

      Only he hadn’t really succeeded. Because he could clearly see she didn’t look like an evil elf, after all. The laughter chased some shadow from her eyes, making them even prettier, and the smile made him even more aware of the sensuous lilt of those puffy lips.

      He’d been here less than ten minutes, long enough to know he hated the White Christmas Inn and everything about it.

      Ryder looked away from her, frowning. He stepped back from Tess and studied the hat. “I’ll be damned. It is on backwards. No wonder it was so hard to work with.”

      A respected architect and he couldn’t get a hat on right. He was learning babies were an exercise in humility. Experimentally, he turned the headgear around the right way, admired it, allowed a small whisper of pleasure at this tiny discovery.

      “It was the placement of the pom-pom that threw me,” he decided gravely.

      “Of course,” she said, just as gravely.

      “Now I won’t have to buy another hat,” he said, allowing that little whisper of pleasure to deepen.

      He saw Emma’s look, and was astounded at how his pride was stung at her misinterpretation. “Not because I can’t afford another one,” he said sharply, “because you cannot imagine how terrible it is being the sole man shopping in the baby department.”

      Tess was crankily trying to pull that hat back off.

      “It doesn’t look like she likes hats, anyway,” Emma said.

      “Until she lets me comb her hair, she wears hats.” He took the hat back off and stepped aside, letting Emma see for the first time what was underneath.

      If she started laughing at him again, he was going to pick up the baby and head back into the storm, knock on the door of the first house in Willowbrook that had no Christmas decorations and beg for sanctuary from the storm.

      But Emma didn’t laugh. Her gasp of dismay was almost worse.

      Hey, it’s not as if your hair is all that different.

      But Emma’s hair was different from Tess’s. Emma’s curls looked as if she had tried, maybe too vigorously, to tame them. He felt that inexplicable urge to touch again, focused on his niece’s hair instead.

      Tess’s white blonde hair did not look as if it had been combed since the day she was born, even though it had only been two days. Her hair looked like it belonged to a monster baby.

      It formed fuzzy dreadlocks and tortured corkscrews. There was a clump at the back that looked like it might house mice, and two distinct hair horns stood up on either side of her head.

      “No nanny for the last two days,” he explained, feeling the deep sting of his own ineptitude. “And in Tess’s world, Uncle is not allowed to touch the goldilocks.”

      Emma looked skeptical, as if he might be making up a story to explain away his own negligence.

      “I know,” he said dryly. “It’s shameful. A twenty pound scrap of baby controlling a full grown man, but there you have it.”

      Emma still looked skeptical, so he demonstrated. He reached out with one finger. He touched Tess’s hair, feather-light, barely a touch at all.

      The baby inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled a bloodcurdling shriek, as if he dropped a red-hot coal down her diaper. He removed his finger, the shriek stopped abruptly, like a sentence stopped in the middle. Tess regarded him with her most innocent look.

      “Ha,” he said, moved his finger toward her, and away, shriek, stop, shriek, stop. Soon, he stopped as soon as her mouth opened wide, so she was making O’s and closing them, like a fish.

      Emma snorted with laughter. Not that he wanted to get her laughing again or explore the intrigue of shadows that danced away when she laughed, and flitted back when she didn’t.

      Again, he wondered what he was doing. He had not wanted Emma to cry. He wanted this even less. Firsts.

      There was something tempting about being with someone who did not know his history, as if he could pretend to be a brand-new man. He contemplated that, being free, even for a moment a man unburdened, a man with no history.

      But he wasn’t those things and Ryder hated himself for thinking he should be free of the mantle he carried. His brother had died because he was, quite simply, not enough.

      The fact that Emma could tempt him to feel otherwise made him angry at her as well as at himself, as irrational as that might have been.

       CHAPTER THREE

      INSTEAD of moving toward the temptation, the pretense, of being a man he was not, Ryder mentally reshouldered his burdens, and stopped playing the little game with Tess, but not before he felt that small sigh of gratitude that his niece did bring some lightness into a world gone dark.

      “Can she have a cookie?” Emma asked, coming back to her original question.

      “I’ll try her with a little baby food first.” He dug through the bag, and a bottle dropped to the floor. He watched it roll downhill, another indicator the house was hiding some major problems.

      Which were, he noted thankfully, none of his concern. He fetched the bottle back, and got out a jar, which he heated in the microwave for a few seconds.

      But, of course, the baby food proved impossible, Tess wiggling around in the high chair Emma had unearthed and focused totally on the cookies that surrounded her. She swatted impatiently when he tried to deliver pureed carrots to her.

      “Certified organic, too,” he said, finally quitting, wiping a splotch of carrot off his shirt. “She had a bottle in the car a while ago, so go ahead, give her a cookie.”

      Unmindful that the baby was now covered in carrots, including some in the tangle of hair he was not allowed to touch, Emma swooped her up from the high chair.

      “Which one, Tess?” Emma asked, stopping at each plate, letting his niece inspect.

      Tess chose a huge gingerbread man, picked a jelly bean off his belly and gobbled it up.

      “You must be hungry, too,” Emma said to him. “I can’t offer anything fancy. I have hot dogs for Holiday Happenings.”

      No! After all his work at distraction, they were right back to this? The shadow in her eyes darkened every time she mentioned her weather-waylaid event.

      “If you’d like a glass of mulled wine or hot chocolate, I have several gallons of both at the warming shed.”

      Several gallons of wine sounded terribly attractive.

      An escape he did not allow himself. Tess needed better.

      “A couple of hot dogs would be perfect.” He watched Tess polish off the jelly-bean buttons and take a mighty bite of her gingerbread man’s head. Disappointment registered on her face as she chewed.

      “YUCK.” Without ceremony she spat out what was in her mouth, tossed the headless gingerbread man on the floor and reached for a different cookie.

      Emma thought it was funny, but these were the challenges in his life. What was best for Tess? Was she too young to try and teach her manners? Did he just accept the fact she didn’t like the cookie and let it go? Or by doing nothing was he teaching her the lifelong habit of smashing cookies on the floor?

      Serial smasher.

      Ryder rubbed at his forehead. He could convince himself he did okay on

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