Chapter 2

With the very tip of two fingers, as though the basket held something viral, Scott reached in and pulled out the recently deposited clump of plastic mistletoe. It was the very worst kind of recreation, too—an overly green ball of waxy, tab-style leaves dotted by too many white plastic balls to look natural.

“Sorry,” a cheerful voice pulled Scott’s glare off the children and up. Soft brown eyes locked on to his, their corners crinkled with a smile. Pretty, Scott decided. Cute, anyway. One of those boyish-smile, life’s-been-nothing-but-good-to-me, all-American kind of guys. He was small but had strong shoulders; he wasn’t too young nor was he too old, but he was not Scott’s usual fare by any stretch of the imagination. Perky fatherly types didn’t usually gel with pessimistic brooding. “Kids,” the man continued. “You know how they are.”