halted her. She turned and realized that the end of her scarf had snagged on a nail at the doorjamb. “Wait—my scarf, it’s caught....”
Neil bent down and freed the fluffy pink knitted ruffles from the head of the nail. “There you go,” he said, lightly dropping it back in place over her shoulder. “That’s some kind of scarf. I don’t think I’ve seen one like it before.”
Charli picked up the end of the scarf and stroked the kitten-soft yarn. “It’s something, isn’t it? My mom knitted it for me—she’s on a knitting frenzy since my dad...passed away. I hated not to wear it after she worked so hard to finish it. Even after all these years, she’s still trying to force me into pink ruffles.”
“You’re not the pink-ruffle type?” he asked. Now he reached over and stroked the soft knit. “Well, I think it looks nice on you. She obviously put a lot of effort into it, and I like the fact you wear it even when it’s not to your taste. Your mom—she stays busy, doesn’t she? I can’t think of a single important committee in this town that she’s not a part of.”
“So strange.” Charli closed her eyes. Her fingers continued to stroke the yarn. “I never knew either of them to be involved in much of anything, community-wise. It’s like I’m Rip van Winkle, and I’ve woken from a long sleep and come home to find everything’s different.”
She opened her eyes again and found that she’d uttered her words so softly Neil had been forced to lean in to understand them. He was close enough for her to see the stubble on his cheek, to breathe in his scent. Close enough to kiss.
He must have heard her quick intake of breath at his nearness, because he moved away a half step.
“Sorry—the noise in the background. Better?” Neil asked.
Oh, no. It wasn’t better at all. Had her mother’s matchmaking put ideas in her head? She realized with startling clarity that she’d wanted to see Neil tonight—maybe not talk to him, but just see him, hear him sing. She’d wanted to know what he sounded like, whether he was a clear-voiced tenor or a strong bass.
But how to say that without coming across like a blithering idiot? “You asked me why I’d come tonight. I guess you made it sound interesting,” she finally said.
“Good. I’m really glad to see you. It seems like I keep ticking you off, and I don’t mean to do that.” He leaned against the doorjamb, giving off that I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world vibe Charli found refreshing. The men she’d known—in college, in med school, her fellow residents—had never been so patient.
“If you’ll give me a pass on all things Christmas, I expect we’ll get along swimmingly,” she said. “I’m not usually a Scrooge....”
“I know.” He nodded and grinned. “It’s the timing. I get it. I guess I’m like Flora—I try to convert the world to my own obsessions.”
She liked his self-deprecation. Again, this was like none of the guys she’d been around for a while. They seemed to take every opportunity to remind her that while she was planning on going into the lowly family-practice field, they would be elbow-deep in neurosurgery or cardiothoracic surgery or trauma or oncology.
Here, Neil had no such pretensions, and she liked the way he seemed at ease with himself.
It soothed her—and her anxiety about her father’s money, and what that amount of cash could mean. She felt certain, all in a moment, that she could tell the man in front of her anything and he’d understand it, help her through it.
It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out about the money and ask Neil for his opinion. But then the lights dimmed twice, and she recalled it was Flora’s signal to get back to the grindstone.
“Gotta go,” he told Charli. “Why not stay and watch?”
She did. As she slid into one of the old wooden seats in the back of the auditorium, she discovered Neil’s voice to be a strong, clear tenor that nailed a solo in an old
Neil bent down and freed the fluffy pink knitted ruffles from the head of the nail. “There you go,” he said, lightly dropping it back in place over her shoulder. “That’s some kind of scarf. I don’t think I’ve seen one like it before.”
Charli picked up the end of the scarf and stroked the kitten-soft yarn. “It’s something, isn’t it? My mom knitted it for me—she’s on a knitting frenzy since my dad...passed away. I hated not to wear it after she worked so hard to finish it. Even after all these years, she’s still trying to force me into pink ruffles.”
“You’re not the pink-ruffle type?” he asked. Now he reached over and stroked the soft knit. “Well, I think it looks nice on you. She obviously put a lot of effort into it, and I like the fact you wear it even when it’s not to your taste. Your mom—she stays busy, doesn’t she? I can’t think of a single important committee in this town that she’s not a part of.”
“So strange.” Charli closed her eyes. Her fingers continued to stroke the yarn. “I never knew either of them to be involved in much of anything, community-wise. It’s like I’m Rip van Winkle, and I’ve woken from a long sleep and come home to find everything’s different.”
She opened her eyes again and found that she’d uttered her words so softly Neil had been forced to lean in to understand them. He was close enough for her to see the stubble on his cheek, to breathe in his scent. Close enough to kiss.
He must have heard her quick intake of breath at his nearness, because he moved away a half step.
“Sorry—the noise in the background. Better?” Neil asked.
Oh, no. It wasn’t better at all. Had her mother’s matchmaking put ideas in her head? She realized with startling clarity that she’d wanted to see Neil tonight—maybe not talk to him, but just see him, hear him sing. She’d wanted to know what he sounded like, whether he was a clear-voiced tenor or a strong bass.
But how to say that without coming across like a blithering idiot? “You asked me why I’d come tonight. I guess you made it sound interesting,” she finally said.
“Good. I’m really glad to see you. It seems like I keep ticking you off, and I don’t mean to do that.” He leaned against the doorjamb, giving off that I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world vibe Charli found refreshing. The men she’d known—in college, in med school, her fellow residents—had never been so patient.
“If you’ll give me a pass on all things Christmas, I expect we’ll get along swimmingly,” she said. “I’m not usually a Scrooge....”
“I know.” He nodded and grinned. “It’s the timing. I get it. I guess I’m like Flora—I try to convert the world to my own obsessions.”
She liked his self-deprecation. Again, this was like none of the guys she’d been around for a while. They seemed to take every opportunity to remind her that while she was planning on going into the lowly family-practice field, they would be elbow-deep in neurosurgery or cardiothoracic surgery or trauma or oncology.
Here, Neil had no such pretensions, and she liked the way he seemed at ease with himself.
It soothed her—and her anxiety about her father’s money, and what that amount of cash could mean. She felt certain, all in a moment, that she could tell the man in front of her anything and he’d understand it, help her through it.
It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out about the money and ask Neil for his opinion. But then the lights dimmed twice, and she recalled it was Flora’s signal to get back to the grindstone.
“Gotta go,” he told Charli. “Why not stay and watch?”
She did. As she slid into one of the old wooden seats in the back of the auditorium, she discovered Neil’s voice to be a strong, clear tenor that nailed a solo in an old
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